I want your arms locked around me like the flap of an envelope.
I want my name scrawled across your torso
with no return address present.
You are the envelope and I am the love letter within.
I want to be the stamp with an american flag
painted across my body standing against the breeze-
blue skies and transparent rain,
waiting for the mailman
to bring me to you.

When people see my wrists they question why I want to die.
What they don't understand is that
I don't intend to **** myself,
I just want to feel alive.

These words are poured on thick
over
and
over.
Tired of apologies
and sick of antiquated rhymes.
Hand in hand we leaped through minefields
and chased after cars,
learning to fend for ourselves
in the waging war of diction and lines.
Some battles were lost,
others were conquered.
Through beauty and heartbreak-
we won this, together.

You're merely seventeen, you aren't in love,
you don't even know what love means-
but then...
neither do I,
and you may think I’m being ignorant
but I'm really just bitter to the taste and rough at the core.

My blood runs black, but my tears are sapphire.
My eyes are as glaring as the air in March.
Don't tell me my mind is powerless.
My soul is dense.
And though my heart is tattered and covered in scabs,
the wounds are more wise than your attempts of being an adult.

You may slush wine in a glass-
as tipsy as the seesaw on the playground from your childhood,
but you will never be able to see.

You can sing and dance that you're in love because you ****** the first girl that said she loved you,
but you shouldn't be so naive,
because it’s easier to be hurt if you are.

So you can wear your six inch heels
and prance around in your chiffon mini skirt and Chanel handbag,
but you will never be a grownup.

The sparks crack
colliding in circles.
Watching. Listening.
Swirls spiral in scarlet rays of light
fighting to warm the room
through its art.
Sparks.

When
the
day
turns
to
night,
you
reach
for
tomorrow,
one
thousand­
years
in
the
making.
Onyx
rose
petals
shield
radiant
eyes;
froze­n
tears
of
glass
last
for
an
eternity.
A
funeral
procession,
a
ro­mantic
obsession.
Summer
to
winter,
life
rushes
by.
A
waking
wate­rfall
disguises
the
past.
So
many
words
went
unspoken
that
you
ra­n
out
of
breath;
what
a
beautiful
death.