Things that **** me
Only thrill me.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust,
Drinking in the hopes that my bones
May begin to rust.
It may be a little crazy,
But I like to see the cuts.
Shoot me shoot me
For the ****,
I know its deadly
To take these pills.
Mirror mirror
Can't you see?
All I am
Is killing me

You can spend all that time
Looking at yourself in the mirror
But you'll never see what I see when I look at you.
I watched you find your flaws every day.
I wanted you to see your perfections.
That page,
That is what you are.
That is what I see.
I wanted to show you what the world sees when it looks at you.
You're art.
I want you to remember that, as you go forward.
You are art. You make people feel something.
Your beauty and your flaws,
Both are exquisite.
I drew you the way I did,
I doggedly kept on
Until I captured whatever essence makes you mesmerizing,
Because I wanted you to know what it's like for us,
The others,
To look at you.
You are art.
Don't forget it.

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

She combed her hair with the night sky
& then let loose those bits of stray galaxy that had embedded themselves in the wisdom of her follicles.

Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.

They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.

They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.

They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.

These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.

They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.

But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.

a couple days ago
i tried to **** myself
by ingesting a handful of
different pretty pills
in the hopes
they'd make me
a pretty corpse
i thought maybe
they'd plant roots
in my stomach
and grow flowers
out of my eye sockets
but then i realized
those pretty pills
would ****
not only me
but the ones who already
saw flowers growing
in the darkest parts
of me

I filled your veins with water and wrote you down on white paper so I didn't have to read you back anymore. Girl's got a suicide pact across the pacific and all I can do is taste the dust.
2. There is a certainty in the way your body moves out time with itself when you think too much.
3. You told me you wanted to be a saint but you were too afraid of the sight of god. When you asked what belief tasted of they told you: fresh buttercream and a wasp's sting. We didn't see you for days.
4. There is a certain tension and it only exists between the bends of girl's legs and the concrete which holds them stronger than any arms could.
5. I want to run every cliche by you and watch you hold hands into the night with it instead of me.
6. Some people can be replicated entirely out of candle wax.
7. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO ******* SELF AWARE ALL THE TIME. You can't even watch yourself.
8. You know you're a halfway house of cells and who are you to say I can't keep up?
9. Say would you tell me if I was just a little off key?
9. Would you tell me the answers to the questions I never asked?
9. Would you play that evening differently if you could turn back the hands that bind you?
10. I burnt you a bridge and sent you the fire like we could ever fill a room with your god. I want to ask him what he thinks of our sins.
11. There is a fluidity in the way your words turn back on themselves.
11. There is a fluidity in the way you turn back on yourself.
11. There is a fluidity in the way people leave doors open for you.
12. I don't think I'd even know what to say to you if I saw you.
13. I only feel comfortable on even numbers.
13. I guess I made myself an odd number.
13. I don't know what we're left with.
13. This is not how we were supposed to end up.
14. I wish you could see the holes you left in the back of my throat.
15. Loving you was as easy as leaving the lights on.
16. And that walk to your parents house was a floodlit symphony like you capitalised every word of every passage I wrote about you with
17 reasons to stay.
And 18 to leave.

The first was the last time I shook like a guard rail and you were a concrete staircase, and I swear, I ain't never seen nothing like you yet.
The second: my fist on your name. But I am here now, like a lit splint bursting into flames, you won't ever find a ghost like me again babe.
The third. And you just want to **** everything. I said you just want to **** everything in your Berlin Wall house.
Your girl's got a bullet hole for a mouth and when it rains, it really does pour round here.

I want to die;
no, actually- I want to live.
but, I want to escape
from the time that traps me
that holds me down
and suspends me underneath
the lack of ticking from the minute hand;
as the clock stares me down
not understanding what goes on in my head.
I want time to move so fast
despite my fear of the future.
I want it to pass by quick
so I wouldn't have moments that would pause completely
and the pain would linger on and on and
it would hurts so much continuously
and I'm frozen in this moment
and time isn't moving
and I can't go on
and my legs won't twitch and my heart won't beat
and I'm just stuck in this moment of complete terror and hurt and
i           don't            know          what         to                      
                                                                                do