everything i do
is always done better.
and i understand--
why you'd rather choose her.

she kicks me down
and stomps me into the ground,
because she's not even
competing
in this stupid
competition i've manifested in my head.

i sing, she sings it better.
i write, she writes it better.
she plays it better.
she wears it better.
she cooks it better.
she will always be better than me.

but just know that i have,
and always will,
try my best.

*(but her best is better.)

your heart beating against mine.
our breaths synchronizing in time.

9:57 PM,
she's the numbest she's ever been in her life.
her body aches with a pain that she can no longer feel,
and her mind refuses to rest, to mend, or to heal.

she lies in her bed as she tries to sleep her life away and she hears the voices,
she prays that they will not stay.
she hears them settle, as they begin to loudly talk.
and then she wonders,
"how the **** will i make it to three o'clock?"

he is fire.
a single glance from him sends an ever-burning blaze coursing through my veins.
he leaves me ignited, a flame brushing through the woods, higher than i've ever been before.
he is scalding.
enveloped with heat and light.
a fiery, raging inferno,
a conflagration,
a wildfire that cannot be tamed.
he is consuming.
all that he touches, he burns.
he leaves his permanent mark
etched into the skin.
an everlasting reminder of where he's been.
he is fire.
but he is also the
firefighter.
the only one who can save me from the flames.

i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.