The doctor closed the fist-shaped hole
Of your absence,
With little black knots,
"Come back in six months;
We'll check up on you"
I'm sitting on the table,
But there is no doctor.
There is me and there is you.
You're whispering
Sweet nothings into my ear,
And tearing my stitches out,
One by one.
I can see the hole again-
"Code Blue"
Only it's not blue,
Your eyes are green.
And I when I wake up later,
You're back.
I try to talk, but you interrupt-
you tell me I'm pretty.
"Begin compressions"
Blood is everywhere.
Months pass.
You are lying in bed next to me;
You kiss me on the mouth.
"Charge to 300"
You are gone.
Please don't come back.

dating a poet is fun,
and you'll learn things about yourself,
that you never knew.
but when you leave her,
you'll be the one who's broken.

you see,
she'll break you down
into bits and pieces-

she'll carve rhymes
into your rib cage
and
she'll make your kisses
into pentameters.

your voice becomes her rhythm,
and each color in your eye
forms a stanza.

you become pieced together
and poorly stitched,
because she's taken out
the very best parts of you
and the very worst.

she's taken you,
and cut out her favorite parts,
and she'll promise to put you back together,
but the funny thing is,
she never learned to sew.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

I hope you never reach
The day
Where you are lost for words
Because they're tangled up in
Agony.

I hope you never reach
The point
Where your innocence of
The world is
Robbed.

I hope you choose
Your friends and
Lovers wisely
So that you never have to
Discover what it feels like
To see those who you believed
Would take a bullet for you
Dance behind the
Trigger.

Intimacy is your gentlest moments
A flutter of kisses, a brush of skin
laying in the dark, breathing in

Intimacy is your darkest moments
a raised hand and blazing blue eyes
2 A.M, alone, a red wrist cries

predators of the soul
strike at the unexpected hour
having stalked their prey
for days and weeks and months

suddenly
the sun looks wan
and you know
they are there
waiting

when they attack
it’s almost a relief
and yet
the struggle is
for life
or death

the beast of the jungle
is very strong

it is that other side
of your core
that rears its head
in dark moments

When I tried to tell someone how I felt
How I felt like a failure
How I didn't have a will to live
How I looked to the future,
And only saw pain

They said,
"You don't look that sad,
And anyway,
You're young.
You're probably exaggerating.
A young, healthy person,
Would not feel like that."

I know I don't look sad
I practice every day
So no one sees my pain

I know I am young
At least in years
But I have seen and felt
So much
In the short time I have been here

I know this.
But I am not okay.
I am not young.
And I am not healthy.

My heart, soul, and mind have aged
Far beyond my years

And I am not healthy
I have not eaten in days
3 or 4 I think
I did not sleep last night
And got less than an hour the two nights before
I slice my own skin open
To bleed the bad things out
And my mind has put me
On the verge of death
And taking my own life

Do you think that is healthy?

As for me being okay...
I think my tears and blood
Can speak for themselves