and i started to choke, not from the smoke of the cigarettes you seemed to love more than me, but from the decay of the flowers you left in my lungs and forgot to water.

and i couldn't see anything, tripping over those hollow words you said three months ago, trying to grasp some root or branch or some last string of love you could have for me.

my body hit the current


(cjw)

Laying all alone
Wrapped in a blanket
A blanket is all
All alone
No one to hold me,
But my own two hands
They caress my naked skin
I shiver
And the lonlyness consumes every inch of my flesh

Contradictions fly through the air around me
Should I keep holding out?
What about the wreck of a life I've made for myself here?
Where do I go?
No one is here for me anymore

All alone
Abondond
Neglected
Abused
Thrown out into the gutters of life

Hated
Spat upon
Lost
Forsaken
Left all for dead

She has always been the love of my life
I've waited
I've held out
I've tried to do what's best for her

Yet I've fucken shattered inside
Nothing in me can hold it in anymore
Every last drop is gone

I think its time.I leave this hollow shell

I am afraid to love someone else
With the fear of them kissing me
And realizing my lips are the remnants
Of the last boy who loved me
Fear he will never be sure if my closed eye hunger
Was real or from practice
Fear that he will be scared
Of the no trespass sign on my body
I am afraid to love someone else
Because I still love you endlessly

"...But truthfully I'd rather stare at your hands. I enjoy how they never shake the way mine do as though I've been carrying an object as heavy as my heart for too long; but they're always empty. I enjoy the way you wrap them around pencils, and coffee cups with a tight grip. I like the way you make it seem like you don't let go very easily. I used to rest in weak hands. I used to slip through the fingers of people who shook me off while I held on as though my life depended on them. I think the problem with the way I live is that I often never give myself the satisfaction of controlling whats mine. I'm not strong enough to make anyone stay. I'm not good enough for them to ever want to. I've lived with this reality making home in my mind but there's something about the way you looked at me this morning; kind of the way an artist looks at a finished canvas in total awe. Maybe that was the moment that I realized that I should probably stop staring at your hands and make love to your eyes. The way the light up as though you've been swallowing lightning bugs. The way you never hesitate to let them linger. The way their blue reminds me of the walls of my grandmas house that was built up with hands that look just like yours. I like the way you stare even when your blood isn't laced with alcohol. Almost as though I'm the painting that no matter how long you look at it; it still remains beautiful. The truth is, my walls are covered in love letters and poems written for someone I never knew... that was until I met you."

This guy on Tinder calls me ****.
My skin rolls with repulsion.
You see,
I hate the word ****.
It sounds like a sixth grader
Hopped up on hormones
Made it up to be funny
And I deleted all of middle school
Out of my memory.

I say
‘**** isn’t a word I’d use to define me’.
He asks what word I would use.
I say
‘Weird Hot’.
The fine line between
Tastefully quirky wrapped in cute
And downright strange.
The type of strange
That leaves you with only two friends,
An X-files Poster,
And a cardboard cutout of Harry Styles
That is riddled with
Purple kiss marks.

He says
‘You are weird.
And hot.’
My skin rolls with repulsion once more.
I don’t want him to think I’m hot.
I want him to think me weird.
I want him to tell his friends
“Yo look at this weird ******* tinder.
Her bio is
‘HELP IM STUCK IN A FORTUNE COOKIE FACTORY’”

But no,
To him I am hot.
To him
The quality doesn’t matter
As long as the packaging is pretty.