Crying is a way your eyes speak when your mouth can't explain how broken your heart is.

Will I be your Finch?
Will you be my Violet?
Can we wander together?

Am I the one over the ledge?
Or is it you?
Dying in silence.

‘I wanna die’ I said.
‘Take  me with you’ you replied.

You thought I was joking,
I knew you weren’t.

You are all I have
All I have to leave behind.

All I need. All we need.

But we still have so many places to go.
All the bright places we left behind
All the memories we haven’t yet formed.

I don't think I wanna go anymore.
Because I’d hate to see you follow me along.

I scratch my scars
peel them off.
Turn them into scraps.

They never stop bleeding
because I don’t want them to.
This poetry is made of pain,
a style nib dipped in blood.

Verses made of hatred.
of
   pain;
           of
   blood

Some people need a sunset
and a coffee
to find their words.

What I need
is to fill my body with my own aches
until
        there
                 is
and                nothing
      I                            left
        can
               dip
                      my
                            words
                                       in
                                     ­       it.

Do you remember
that first poetry book?
Poemas de Otoño
     de
           Rubén
  Darío.

Do you remember when
you borrowed it?

“It was the first book
she ever read
         out
     of
            pleasure”

Your mother said.

It was the last one too,
wasn’t it?

Because you are gone now.
Gone forever.
Gone with no coming back,
gone with no reply,
with no promise of an
“I’ll meet you again”

Nothing.

You are no longer there to console me.
There is nothing to cling into.
No hope.

No hope except for a shallow dream,
the empty promise of the afterworld,
the holy gates.

I’d be religious
just for you.

But my brain was never made for blind belief.

So I’ll pull deidities aside
and grasp into poetry,
in a hope that
if heaven can’t be real
at least I’ll bring my demons
into earth.
Into paper.

Into
ink.

You lie and lie and lie over and over again.
Every lie, a post-it on your face, covering your body.

After so many lies
I can no longer recognize what is found behind.

They are your barricade,
but we all know that they are papercut.

And no matter how thick you make them out to be,
paper will never be wood again.

Feelingless eyes flicker through the streets.
They see cars moving around.
Their owners blend with the vehicles
until society becomes nothing but a uniform machine.

A uniform, lonely, horrible machine.
Everything
         becomes
    gray.