The scary part about those nights where the voices get too loud is the screaming to yourself in the hope that the demons leave. They scream at me “WHAT’S YOUR PURPOSE” and that I am worthless, but scarier still is when you start to believe them.

LET ME DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE THEY ARE THE FRESHEST WATER ON EARTH AND LIKE I AM DYING OF THIRST.
GIVE ME A DROP OF YOUR POETIC SALVATION.

all my life
they've said it's wrong
but now
it's happening to me
and it feels so right

maybe not every girl
needs to fall in love with a boy
nor every boy with a girl

that's just boring
and life is anything
but boring

she was the type of girl you'd see in a park,
singing to the dandelions while strumming a guitar.
she was the type of girl to fall asleep next to her guitar
on bed of grass at the bottom of a hill.
magic in her fingers, she'd press her light frame to the grass
and force the darkness from her lungs into the earth.
magic in her eyes, mistress of the night.
banisher of spirits into the vacuum of space where
the only thing promised is eternal and infinite blackness.
magic in her lips, she kissed the fallen leaves
turning them to amber hues when the seasons get too cool for her life to flourish.
magic rattling through her bones when the winter nights are cold,
harboring flowers in her veins, she’d bleed to let them live.
magic in her blood, letting it drip to the mud
turning it auburn and burgundy.
she was the magic that is life
and the beholder of all things good.

If my brain bled visible colors in an outwardly tangible spectrum, they’d be dampened maroons and lifeless oranges. They’d drip like pools of broken glass built for thoughtless reflections and a trivial life question based on why my lungs want the oxygen so bad...

eventually, we will find out that we did not take enough pictures to last those six months…
we will discover that exhausting those few that we had together will hurt a little more than not taking any.
when we've fought enough over words that could not be resolved over airwaves one hundred miles apart, and could have been stopped from rolling off your tongue by taking them into mine and when the comfort of passion can calm my nerves is when the pictures will mean something again.
the exhaustion of memories is driving us to meaningless pieces of earth dust and it's polluting our fire souls to the precipice of insanity.

in the east
there is sand, and fire, and oath;
in the west
there is another plague
of the mind and the soul;
in the north
the solitude of every snowflake
can be felt;
in the south
the ancients are rotting
forgotten because
their stories don't sell