There is a soft throb to this.
All my poems have long names.
My heart is always racing; it's also
always aching.
Beats like a clock. Tick. Tock.
Emptys me like a bottle of wine.
His kisses, like nails, like teeth; against
my spine.
heat, like heavy breathing, like unbelievable pleading; pierce my mind.
His memory. Like sand paper. Like pierced lips. Like skinny dipping. Like unmade memories. Like a life I've led before. Like lies, like keeping score. Like being scorned.

Like cuddling before dawn. Like being safe and being warm. Like being scolded and being  warned. Like being allowed and being torn. Like being kissed.
Like being missed.
Like being kissed.
Like being kissed.
And kissed.
Like heat.
He's, like promises of enjoying defeat.
Of relaxing into new sheets.
Like being kissed.
There's a soft beat to this.
Like being scolded. Like being kissed.

If his eyes were stars she would wish upon them.
Perhaps then, he would look to her the same way.
If his breath were a poet she would hang upon it’s every expression.
Wishing for a day where her remarks would take his breath away.
She drinks in his breath, as if it would give life to her dull bones.
If he could tell her how she made his life light up like a Christmas candle.
She would blush at every line.
Her lips puckered with ****** request.
It was the most innocent of caresses. She held onto ignorance
with no wish of letting go.
Because when she’s with him, the voices don’t cry so loudly
she could write ten thousand poems about his gentle eyes.
Describing every part of it she would sweep with her damp burnt, licked lips.
Drawn into a line to stop the flow of words she wishes to whisper.
So she doesn’t open her dark bat filled mouth to his spring filled questions.
In the obscurity, she imagines his soft hand next to hers.
She sings a lullaby into his ears, and he wishes he could kiss her.
And she wishes he could too.
As of now, she’ll cry out to the voices to hush themselves.
And the dusk to enlighten her,
She cannot see the light at the end of tunnel; this façade is blocking the way.
All she knows is that she needs him closer.
If he could tell her a thousand times that the sun shone down from the heavens and through her expression.
She would glance down at the floor and hear.
He’s lying. ҉

I can’t feel beautiful because I can’t feel anything at all
and the lines I’m typing aren’t mine
and you’re just reaching to see your own spine
the lies you’ve spun can be told by the light shining through the dirt filled blinds.
I’ve got nothing left so make me fall.
Because I can’t feel beautiful if I don’t feel anything at all.

If only my heart beat in syncopation with my mind.
I wish to make the words collide, but separation is all I can find.
Still I force my hand to tell a tale a soul would plead to hear.
I pray to some cigarette and wine stained God that tomorrow will draw me near.
Yes, tomorrow I would fly high and caress the sky with such a tender touch.
But tonight I am buried, beneath emotion uncontrolled and contorted.
Tonight I cannot so much as separate a single strand of hair from my eyes without the flood of passion.
Pass the salt, pour it onto my self-inflicted wound we so often refer to as love.
But my love has been bruised burnt and destroyed.
I have cursed, killed and polluted my own mind with thoughts of sickness, and now I crave it.
Had I only believed the goodness in myself?
Not let the demons creep up and **** all hope of a new beginning.
Had I so simply as smiled and thanked the lady when she spoke, the gentle kisses of her soft words had pulled my mind from where it had been.
too where I am now.
There are no words. No motions, no belief.
I am Godless and covered in the spit of my immortal demons.
Would it be better if I simply let them win…
their knives are as sharp and their whip is warm.
Their sick pretend grace causes my hands to reach for them. But they’re not there.
Not here, I am without my demons, my lover, my God, my destroyer.
I am alone.

You should just get out.
I’ve changed too much; the pretty lady you looked through that night isn’t the same space being filled by the broken body in your bed. So just get out, you don’t find my frightening or mysterious anymore. My ****** thoughts aren’t spoken words but ravaged thoughts, repressed and undressed for no one anymore. I keep it in, I cannot communicate the bastardizing ******* that’s in my head, I am not brilliantly broken, I am ashamed and busted.
I am not the princess you paid for. I am the thing you’ve worked so hard for, but have failed at none the less. I am the mess you let slip into your heart when you thought no one was looking.
I am not the wind, or the ice water down your throat on a hot day, I am unforgiven and easily forgotten. I am bitten but not chewed, I have bite marks the shape of my own mouth down the gaps in my spine and I am nothing, I am not my own mind.
So just leave, let this be a warning and just get out. I am not deserving of your serving or your love. I am pathetic and weak and baby I am not the sunrise you thought you were chasing I am the fire that burnt down your house.
I have done nothing for you but bend your will, I am not fortifying and I am not forcing you to stay anymore. So say what you but just get out.

I do not exist.
I have translucent skin,
I insist on the breath I take, I am responsible for no one.
muscle structure is a modern myth.
my bones only move on your command.
There is control in your touch.
and your memory is holding me down.

This house is as old as dust.
It creaks and sighs with ever once of pressure.
My room
Is dark and smells ever so slightly of someone who is not me.
The young girl who waited for snow days, the boy: his
Midnight eyes and, broken memories, intact.
(His heart and his head in a field somewhere)
She holds a place here, with the dust and the creaking floors.
There are moments held in captivity within these walls.
(Suspended in disbelief, for they cannot imagine who has replaced them.)
My heart still rests on the bed, my eyes weary.
A day of traveling behind me, a lifetime of moments ahead.
(the blunt assumption there is more to life than this.)
She is not me, the crossed legged one.
Computer screen, light pollution beside the old lamp,
(cascading the room with warm and comforting shadows)
What once frightened me, now I greet like an old friend.
I am here for a moment, as is the light.
Ignited with a spark and snuffed again by a whim,
Of something I cannot control.
This house is as old as dust, and I will return to it
Time and again, although it will never truly
Be mine
(ever again.)