every time i see you i forget you can see me too
more often then not i catch my eyes tracing your face
like if i can remember every detail i can keep you like a photograph
but just like a photograph the ink warps with time
and i have to remind myself this will someday be a memory
something i can not touch but feel
and i’d do anything to not forget this feeling
but in this frame i stand alone
cause you were never mine to keep in the first place
i’m just a girl with smudged fingerprints

You're in love with her.
She's the kind of soft that makes the sun fall to its knees every evening just to get a closer glimpse.
She's everything that makes a boy believe in god.
How else could he be alive at the same time as her if he didn't?
The odds are too great for there to be any other reason that he gets to make her smile.
That kind of smile that's designed to melt boys like him that i've turned cold.
You thought I was her once.
Speaking of thoughts, do I ever cross your mind sometimes like you cross mine? Even if unintentional?
At night I accidentally love you like no time has passed.
I know it's just my unconscious mind, but while I sleep there's a version of you that loves me still.
You're a dream that I wish wasn't.
So it's the worst kind of accident you could say.
Maybe not accidental if gods real like you believe he is.
My dreams might possibly just be his way of saying "*******".

If everyone that ever loved me was in one room,
I wouldn’t even be there to see it.
What do you call that?
Not seeing what has always been right in front of you?
Having everything but grasping at nothing,

My heart melts on a hot summer day when it feels your presence.
It’s like trying to show an ice cube that it’s okay to melt,
that you can still be you, but softer.
Because you- you always knew how to make even the coldest evaporate.
I’m not saying that you should be gullible enough to fall for every boy with kind words.

So many times, I’ve become a puddle for boys with no fear of drowning.
With no intentions of asking why I create the waves I do, my tides call out your name thinking I can become who you’re scared of leaving.

Beneath my rocky surface, I don’t know who I am.
If you pretend to know yourself for so long, you become a mystery to even yourself.

So you keep calling out names of boys who make you feel like
Something, Someone, Anyone.
With no remembrance of your own name.

I have no more tears to shed for anyone but myself.
My sadness is mine.
The moment you learn people aren't medicine,
you start getting help from your own two hands.
Nothing feels better than to fall asleep with
the person you know will be there in the morning.

When you're the monster under your own bed,
you forget that you slept here too once.
That the shadows were meant for more than hiding in them.
When did you start turning off the night light?
When did your hands start dancing in your sleep?
Trailing up and down your wrist like a lost boat at sea, aching to come home from the war; You forget who you're fighting against sometimes.
You see, it's easier to blame the person you can't see then the one laying in your bones.
I tell my therapist that i'm just trying to figure out where these claws are growing from.
Digging in my skin is easier than asking myself why I have the shovel in my hands to begin with.

The little girl rakes her fingertips across the condensation that builds on the windows from outside.
She carves out the sun like the grin that takes hold of her cheeks.
She lives like the rain will never touch her,
only evaporate from the warmth radiating from the dancing sun underneath her fingertips.
Mother yells she'll have to scrub the windows if she keeps it up,
as if messes can't bring beauty too;
That the sun has to shine for the eyes of others to be worth existing.
So mother rolls down the window,
and the little girl is washed away with the rain.

He drew a figure eight on my spine, absentmindedly,
and traced the nape of my neck with his fingertip when he said,
“You are beautiful to me.”

But the ellipsis in the silence spoke louder than he did, and the look in his eye was not born because I was lovely;
It was not because he loved me.

A thing too small for love-
But far too large to be lust;

Simple. Ugly.

He looked at me like he was hungry.

So sweetly he critiqued each curve, every line, blurring my edges with the images of every bent perception pulled from the mire of his mind;

and I
could not
satisfy


Pretty innocence diminished in the grip of his vice,
Pressed tight against my body, despised in dark eyes.
I am not the inhuman creatures you contrived in the middle of the night.
I am not the feminine expression of your ******* pride.

What a wicked crime,
to take a woman’s body and leave the woman behind.