Tell her about
The time you saw your
Mother do a line
In front of you;

Remind her
Why you haven't
Been able to walk straight
Since.

And don't forget
About all the times
She left you
Astray.

She could only ever express
How much she loved you
When she loosened
Her grip around a syringe.

It eats away at her.

She never wanted
To love a substance
More than
Her own son.

Don't look at her
Hands and how rapidly
They shake -

She desperately tries
To make it work;
To make it stop,

But how many nights
Are you willing to wait
For the moment she wakes up,

Or for the moment she is
Okay again.

The reality is that you won't,

Because it has been
Three and a half years,
And you are still reliving
The same ******* memories

You were never able to
Let go of.

The way I see it,
we were both each other's decorative
porcelain dolls.

Fragile, and if handled poorly,
would crack under the pressure
of the other.

We were both kept upon our shelves
only to collect dust,
which eventually got swept
underneath the rug anyway.

I do not wish to say things that cover up the blemishes of the reality of the faults in ourselves. I want our flaws to burn passionately against the wind in front of the eyes of those who do not understand.
Constantly move against the grain and fight to be more than who you are. Even if it means sacrificing things you normally wouldn't; like your time. It is okay to lead a life that most people do not agree with. Because in the end, we are all human beings who have, or will hang onto the idea of perfection. My advice to you, is to not let this become who you are. Do not be like them.

Disappointment is the taste of your tongue lingering
on the curve of my lips.
It is the taste of black coffee gone stale at ten fifteen in the morning after you're gone.
The pain I feel is that of the ember side of your cigarette pressed deeply
into the palm of my left hand as the only thing you'd ever truly given me.

The defeat I hear is hidden in your voice during the call I received from you late last night
amongst the terrified willingness to try and pick up the phone in the first place.
It's the type of disappointment you understand on the opposite end of the line.
It's the disappointment you smell on his lips when you're not even with him.

And I hate that I want to taste again the malt liquor on your tongue,
that I want to feel your fingertips dancing across fresh wounds.
That I want to feel the fear and anxiety by plummeting into your arms in the middle of the night until I realize you're not there.
It is the type of disappointment I feel in myself for ever having tried to pursue something as wild and as captivating as you.

I never knew that
Falling in love with someone's voice
Was possible until I walked in a room
And sat at a wooden desk
And listened to you speak.

Your voice was a symphony,
and I was the audience
Anxiously waiting for
A beginning and an end.

I wont ever forget it.

Someday soon
Your voice will
Turn into a
Distant memory,

And I'll write
A poem about
How it changed my life-

I will be the performer,
and you will be
The last song
I wrote.

By happenstance,
I wonder which part of me were to break if I ever heard your voice again.
But nevertheless I sit and wait considerably
for thoughts of me to pass,
or to register through your head again.
Either way, it doesn't really matter because you ****** me harder and faster beyond my ability
to recover.
I never read the terms and conditions before I fell in love with you,
now I'm beginning to
wish that I had.

I was hoping you'd understand,
but a while back I took your worn out edges and folded them back and forth so I could tear you apart easier.

I regret it now because all I have been doing is trying to put your pieces back together.
You never came back together.
Yesterday I was playing pretend with your shadow.
I was pretending that I never gave up praying for you.

The truth however is that I did
and maybe a part of that was because I never truly had faith in anything.
I was just hoping you'd stay a little longer.

Sometimes I'm convinced that I'll hear you say my name,
but it's really me trying to remember the way you sounded in the recorded messages left on the machine.
Back then I could've never expressed the discontent I felt.

Let's pretend that if you read these poems that maybe things would've been different.

My lips still taste
Like concrete
From the day you kicked me
To the curb.

Lick your fingers
And turn the page

Stop thinking about the fact that glass shattering in the background reminds you of how long it's been since you've held a heart

That wasn't
Your own

You undress depression in the way I
willingly take off my clothes when
I've had too much to drink.

You miss the days when the only
body you touched
wasn't your own,
and if a lover ever ****** you over,
you would want them to *******
like they owed you an apology.

It's funny how love is synonymous with mistake.
We're all biting out tongues over someone we hoped would
look at us in the same way
we looked at them.

You would hope that one day your
lover would acknowledge how
unbalanced you are without
your counterpart,
and if their silence meant stay,
then you would keep
the back door unlocked
just in case.

Waiting for you was like waiting for my mother to stop smoking,
but you know that when you drop an old habit
you tend to pick up a new one

She never told me about the filters she left behind my pillow case,
or the empty bottles of wine hidden behind the children's books.

And when you walked into the restroom you could see the walls tainted in varying shades of yellows.

She taught me about addiction in a subtle way.
By age seven I learned to enjoy the smell,
and by age eight I learned what it felt like to be drunk from neglect.