In a grassy ditch,
lets lie on our backs
until its dark enough to pretend
we're in a meadow far away from here.
There's a skyline in the stars
and we're young and determined enough
to plan to get right to the edge
of the milky way
someday, when our hands
have held the other's for so
long that there's an imprint in the lines
so deep a psychic couldn't tell
us apart.

We are the heroes in a miniature
wasteland world and there's a fire
in your eyes when you look out
across our kingdom
and declare that
hell has never burned so bright.

Having a happy ending is still
an ending. We carry tender
little tragedies wherever we go, and hope
one day, we'll be
older than our bones.

Over thinking
about nothing and spiralling deeper
and deeper into a vast and useless
consciousness is just another form of suicide
that you hear about on the internet.

I'm not bringing myself down into the dirt
again this time just because it's a better
point of view for
you. I know I'm just here for when
your stability gets too boring, and I'm a
liar now
because I shouted to the world from
rooftops and
illicitly whispered on street
corners that I was done
complaining.

And yet here I am, and here you are,
looking at me in the dirt. It's in my eyes
and now you look like it, too.

I guess I'm not strong yet
and I could try to twist this whole
situation into something desirable
and exotic and beautiful, but I will end up
hating those words. Tears don't
water the seeds of new beginnings and
despair isn't just a mask
that will one day wash
off, when in reality
it's your face
that you try to pry off every
evening while looking in the mirror.

Surrendering is violent.
And yet
even soldiers
must rest.

We could be eternal
if fate didn't rest in our
crumbling lungs. The stars in your
eyes will eventually turn to
dust, but know that right
now the imprints of
constellations on your skin
are the brightest object
in the night.

Every story ends and even
heroes die.

But know there's something divine
in the heart-palpitating chaos of
everlasting
stillness.

May
wild beauty
in these decaying
words
be what I leave behind.

For a girl who tasted of summer
and was just as hot-tempered,
she closed all her doors like there was
a cold winter's draft.

Stalactite tears gathering
in the belly of cavernous
hearts. She is soft and hard and
silk and steel and so many
different faceted shards.

I know how you feel
when you feel nothing. And sometimes,
it's hard putting it into words.

Why do the most truthfully heartfelt
statements begin with, "I know it's silly, but..."

No. Stomach your apologies so that
the rest of you won't remain
undiscovered. You're a map made of
resignation
with feelings about yourself more
tangled than yarn woven in and around
all your bones.

I want to make brutal honesty the new
fad. Have everyone fall in love with boldness
in words
so that it becomes
therapeutic to hand out paper keys during
conversations
to unlock someone's heart.

Scream out at the top of your lungs,
I WAS A FAKER TILL NOW
and smile
because you know you've never spoken
truer words
and because
nobody knows it.

Honesty has now become your
secret, and it will be the lightest
load you've ever had to bare.

I wish kisses could leave
scars, and pain
would leave no trace of its
presence behind. I've been
to so many places with strangers
and each time I imagined it was some version of you
with me instead.

Save our own hearts by
entering another. Devouring another.
I'm not sure what love is
but faulty incantations, a changing
forecast in stormy minds.
I'm denying myself again from touching
the truth because

holding someone forever and
into eternity
is difficult to comprehend for
a mind that feels more alone when looking
at the stars,
for someone who feels like an intruder
in the house they grew up
in, and is still searching
underneath doormats for "home".

It would be nice for a breeze to catch
my lungs like a net
and whisk me away from
where I stand
against myself. I'm hoping sooner or later
I'll get lost enough in a warm place
that wholly embraces me in ways
I can't for myself.

I'll lie on my back
with dignity's shadow blanketed
over me. The clouds are in the shape
of an hourglass, and they spell out
my glory days
in shades of goodbye.

Unwarranted and unlocked memories.
Closed doors that I
clawed at, snubbed
fingers and blistered emotions. There are novels
filled with what ifs underneath the dirt
of my fingernails. I'd like to resubmit my
application
of trying again
to whoever has the time to
listen to hallow words.

After all this time
I have been as vapid as a dissipating
cloud. My legacy will be
sinking my teeth into
forbidden fruit laced with
ambition. Its the worst drug. You only
need one taste for it to
affect you forever, and one mistake
for it to choke you.