You left traces of venom on my lips
It took away my ability to breathe
My ability to talk
The only sense I could feel was touch
I could feel the venom invading my veins
Slowly your presence began to fade
My eyes were closing
I lost your grip & began falling down a cliff
My corpse landed on a meadow of flowers

I opened my eyes
Realized it was all nothing but a dream
I stood up to take a look in the mirror
My lips were left with your bite marks
You left traces of venom on my lips.

I let my phone die so I could experience something

and I can’t tell If its 9 am or 12 in the afternoon
and I’m looking at the light coming from under my black curtains

and I’m squinting my eyes and watching the whole world blur
which is just how I’ve always liked it
so today is no different

I’m writing myself sick and drawing pictures of the hole in your lip
and the freckles on the back of your ears

and I didn’t mean to make this poem about you
but I wasn’t in the mood to tell you I love you either

and I ******* hate sunsets they make me far too sad

and I’m kind of wishing
I could just let the sun burn out my vision once and for all

then all I would have left is the simplicity of dreams

and I still wish you broke all of your bones

I have been told that
my heart feels too
Strongly and that I,
too, must make sure,
regardless, that I be
utterly safe so that it
grows
gracefully and
lightly, unharmed. But
i - fortunately unfortunately am
naturally built to hold
great passions and love.

your mind is a forest, and i
want to carve my initials
onto every tree

My professor is looking at cars on a white projection screen
I am wondering why it was worth my time to come today
Bought a book for $260 so here I am

The boy with a Mohawk and
Chiseled cheekbones looks at me
I always catch him glancing back 3 rows

I don't know the colour of his eyes
But I know the exact bone structure of his jaw
and the way he tightly clenches his fist until the knuckles are white

He makes me wonder what I am
To know that I want nothing more than
His hand colliding with my face
What does that say about me

My professor is an old man who can't walk without a cane
He shows us his ****** art he is so proud of
We are all in rose colored glasses
That does not go away no matter our age
And that is probably the saddest thing

You were wearing my favorite black leather jacket
And the minute I saw you walk out of the hospital doors
Something in your face made me shift in my seat a little
Like two stones grinding against light pressure
I took your frame in mine and could tell you had been crying

I'd never felt such raw emotion when you kissed me
You tasted faintly of salt
Like tears had freely curled in the edges of your lips

When you sat in my car and held my hand while you spoke
I had never heard such raw emotion
You told me that the recesses of your mind
played out death
Every time

It was then that I almost understood how crippling your
Disease is to you
I can't feel your pain but I can see it on your face

I think if I could ever truly love someone
it'd be you

The problem with loving an artist is it appears beautiful
You get endless sketches of your hands and eyes
On coffee shop receipts
You get scribbles about the endless abyss of your love
Written in the margins of her class lectures
You will receive long tight embraces and soft kisses that
sometimes feel as if she is trying to swallow your scent
And that's all okay for a while

The problem with loving an artist is it gets ugly
she'll smoke too many cigarettes at 4 pm on the back porch while
She mumbles to the sunset about another day gone
You'll find her in bed at 8 am with pages of sad ramblings
Clutched in hand even in sleep
She will skip meals so she can revise the same four words
Until they are the same as originally written
She will ask you to listen to a different song every day because it
"reminds her of you"

Eventually you will find her with paint and blood
Curling into the drain
But she will shut the door on you
And when you question her about the razors you found in her nightstand
She will take them from you and say
"This is how I make my art"

And for the first time
You will read the poetry on her wrists
And you will be unable to say what she needs to hear because
You are not a poet
You do not know how to make words into love
You do not even know if you want to stay when she calls you

"Muse"