Today I found a sense of peace within myself,
and it made me uncomfortable.
This isn't to say I didn't see it coming,
but,
if that storm was my vacation, then I hated summer break.

I don't know what to do with anyone anymore-
not excluding myself, of course-
and you are certainly no exception.
I feel no pang when I see you with her, and why should I?
Have her, if you want. I have another, anyway, and it took me too long to realize
what I would really be giving up
if I tried to chase down another lost cause.

Maybe we're following each other, but I am officially clearing my scent
and leaving myself blind to you.
We will not remain,
but maybe you and me can work out a way not to fall apart.

She doesn't know how to make you happy.
She doesn't have the ability to wrap her arms around you and whisper in your young ears that old women are strangers.
She doesn't know how to kiss your tears away because the ocean terrifies her and you taste like saltwater when you bask in the sun.
She doesn't want to watch you suffocate but it's hard to let you breathe when she needs oxygen, too.
You are sunlight and glory and an inescapable breeze in winter but to her you are fragile and have broken too many times and she's running out of super glue.

Maybe this doesn't make any sense, but neither does her head
neither do you and neither does she
cause you aren't a single thing she knows what to do with
yet she can't find it in her to let you go.

She is a saint bred by Lucifer.
She is a fortress in a hurricane.
She is a flashlight in a blackout.

How does she disappoint everyone else
when she is everything but failure to me?

She is the reason I clench my fists-
another wave crashing against
an already broken ship.
Something held so fondly in the hands of
an ignorant little child
torn to pieces by belligerent claws
worn so elegantly by an otherwise
hideous temptress.

Oh, how you hate me.

It's the weight on my shoulders that has me writing tonight,
and the way that you look at me
with heavy-lidded eyes and half-curved lips
makes me feel as though
you put the pressure there yourself
and are waiting for me to fall.
I've crumpled to the floor too much to appreciate anything but the pain of this drawn-out seduction
and I have never wanted more than to touch someone's frown with my smile.

But that would be a lie.

Tonight I want to be one with myself
and admire the storms above me with a newly found solace,
but it is hard to look yourself in the eye
and mention that a broken glass
is still worth drinking from.

My hands fit to your waist,
so perfectly,
so effortlessly,
I could swear we were crafted together.

Your lips feel so good on mine, that,
when I'm feeling down,
like the world is against me
(it probably is),
just the thought of your delicate skin
gracing Abaddon with the most divine of touches
is enough to soothe the charcoal soul
of Lucifer (her)self.

Lying awake at night was so
dreadful
before you were around.
I never want to sleep because I can hear the smile
in your voice.

Sometimes, I see the stars,
and I trace the crinkles of your
beautiful eyes
in the astounding wonderland
God crafted solely for you.

God, God, I love what you do to me.

Empty hallways, crowded streets.
I always wanted to grow old,
but I never wanted to grow up.

Why does leaving mean forgetting? I can already feel them all slipping away.

I don't want this to be over
but I've never seen a better ending.

Note that, when you change your mind,
my thoughts shift, too,
perhaps not always in a way too kind,
but, at least they still center around you,
and that is good enough for the both of us.

I am nothing (but naïve).
You are everything, and beautiful.

I sigh a lot,
and my tears taste like the ocean,
and I don't talk very loud,
and I stutter a little,
and I am not very pretty,
and I am constantly tripping over air,
but,
I could love you with every bit
of my Awkward Little Self
if you would just give me the chance.

So easily do you cry out as the victim
that you seldom remember you are also a criminal.

I have no further desire to pity you.
Stand up, dust yourself off,
lift your chin and wear your mistakes as a sheath
guarding your penetrating lackluster sword.
I won't stop you from making a fool of yourself,
but I have every problem with you trying to make a fool of me.
Why don't you stand up
and wipe the false tears from your eyes?
No one believes you anymore,
even if they stopped trusting me long ago.
They don't care.
They aren't going to care.

So why don't you stop pretending,
and draw your white flag,
and surrender to the truth
you've known all along?

Strip the flesh from my bones
and make from it a carpet
to better walk all over me.
Craft from my skeleton
a little cage for birds
and allow them to assist in your
defilement of me.
Feed my organs to the Lion
so that I might keep Him at bay
and allow for your further escape.
Bury my soul amongst the stars
and I can water your garden with my tears
(I've always wanted to give you life).
Cast my memories aside
and fill my mind with your own,
because my thoughts should be about you, anyway.

My pills are supposed to make me happy,
but I'm quite done pretending

(I'm a terrible actress, anyway).

God* knows I'm a (ship)wreck.

But nonbelievers do not sink.

She makes me laugh in the way nobody else can.
She makes me smile in a world full of familiar frowns and furrowed brows.
She makes me roll my eyes in a way that seems too playful to be genuine.
I think she loves me,
and maybe that isn't so bad.

She makes me feel at home when I have nowhere to go.
She keeps me warm when even my fortress of blankets stands no chance against the cold.
She makes me sigh in such a way that even I can't tell what emotion I'm feeling.
I know she loves me,
and maybe that isn't so bad.

The girl who taught me that distant family is sometimes the closest
doesn't remember how I hurt her.

The girl who taught me how loyalty comes in a variety of ways
doesn't know how often I betray her.

The girl who taught me how great it is to be craved
doesn't know I never wanted her.

The girl who taught me that releasing your demons is okay
doesn't know I often belittle her.

The woman who taught me that I always have someone to confide in
doesn't know I don't have the confidence to.

The man who taught me to never give up on others
doesn't know how much I've given up on him.

The girl who taught me that some things are forever
doesn't know how often I've wished she and I were for never.

The man who taught me not to trust someone I once held above the stars
doesn't know that, fifteen years later, I'm still hurting from his actions.

She is five-foot-three,
with an odd crop of brown hair
and a catlike grin
that forces her to smile when she doesn't want to.

She is fourteen (fifteen in thirty-seven- no, thirty-six days),
and makes me think that age might really be
just a number,
because she carries herself
with all the wisdom and remorse
of someone much older than me.

She is perfect
in the most imperfect of ways,
and her dry humor and quirky attitude
can keep me smiling all day.

She is everything I never asked for,
but
She is everything I've ever wanted.

My ear hurts.
That's nothing new.
You're beautiful,
and that's old news,
but I'd listen to it every day
with this bleeding mess on the side of my head.

I'm cramping.
Guess it's that time of the month.
But I love you every time of the month,
every day, every hour, minute, second
breath

Heartbeat.
It sounds in my veins and reminds me of you,
lingering under my skin and keeping me alive.

Beat.
Beat.


*Beat.

You can breathe tonight.
Let no effort bring itself to your tired bones.
I will hold you, until the end,
and no demons will break through to
your porcelain soul.

Let sleep wrap you in its wings.
Dance with me in the stars.
Tonight you are alive,
and you will be tomorrow, too,
and that is glorious,
because this cramped universe
is pure emptiness without you.

Let it be noted, that,
I am one who seldom seeks the presence of another being.
Fortunately,
you are no other being
(I believe you are a part of me).

Tomorrow, you will live on,
and I might not,
and that's alright,
but,
let it be noted, that,
you can still breathe.

I think I could get used to waking up beside you,
and following the catlike curve of that smile
on your celestial canvas
with a trembling brush.
I could paint you in the evenings,
and watch as you colored the world with
such a vibrant palette of a voice
and explained to me the things you love
with the most vivid of words.

Is this all you can describe us as?
Is that all we were to you?
I thought, perhaps,
I had stayed up until four in the morning
on school nights and on breaks
talking to you as though,
Mutually,
nothing else mattered.

I thought, perhaps,
when you told me to wait,
that you didn't have the time,
that it would be worth my patience
(Or perhaps my lack thereof).

I thought, perhaps,
that when I saw your face,
heard your voice,
listened to you chuckle,
woke up from a half slumber and saw you watching me,
some weird mix of admiration and love and lust and passion in your quirky gaze,
we meant something to one another.

But you've revealed the truth, and that's alright.
I can find another Lily in my pond.

"I can't wait to die."

It was my initial thought that these words were the scariest I'd ever heard
roll so easily from a loved one's tongue.
However,
It wasn't until more syllables fell upon
my once deaf ears
that I realized
Death isn't worrisome,
it is guaranteed.
What's got this shiver up my spine and is dilating my pupils
and causing my nails to hunt for blood in the sweaty earth of my palms
is the idea of the feelings I'd never cared to crave
and would unwillingly miss when my carcass was only that.

"I love you."

I see you;
In the horses slowly trotting, riding along at the commands of their masters;
In the leaves clinging desperately to the vulnerable trees, left to the fate of the unrelenting breeze;
In the clouds drifting by, their shapes reforming at the will of the wind;
In the flowers wilting in the sun, screaming at their roots to find some source of water in this drought.

You go at the leisure of the ones who saddle your back,
and hold onto those hurt people, who angrily batter at your cowering form.
You mold yourself to others' preferences,
and are crushed by your god, looking for some hope he may have left you in this seemingly eternal despair.

I see you in my reflection, seeking some sort of break from an already fractured world.
You are broken and the world around you bent,
but there are ways to fix everything,
and I am studying to be a Mender.

Can you imagine a life in black and white?
I wouldn't like to,
and greyscale never did expose the beautiful complexion
on which I planted fervent kisses
and meaningful whispers
hushed only with the lips of a soul
I can never seek to fathom.

And how would we see
the colors of our wounds?
The fangs of our demise
finding purchase in our skin
and draining all reds, blues, greens.

I think you bleed yellow,
and perhaps that is why you slit your velvet graces,
to find the happiness you know
is somewhere very
very
deep within.