he likes neck kisses and being called "sweetheart."
he drinks milk when he eats peanut butter,
offer to pour it for him.
he loves pugs and his dog, ******.
if you're not best friends with ****** by the first month,
you're doing something wrong.
when he tells you you're beautiful,
it is easier to just agree.
when he takes you home,
allow plenty of time to say goodnight (he takes forever).
he hates crunchy peanut butter.  
he'll give you his jackets and hug you until you stop crying.
if you watch lord of the rings with him, bring kleenex.
know and understand star wars references or you're *******.
he is an incredible writer.
he'll buy you lots of things for christmas,
do not try to compensate.

if he isn't the best boyfriend you've ever had,
you're not giving him enough credit.
love him, he deserves it.

and i kinda hope you never exist,
because i'm not done loving him yet
and i don't think i ever will be.

No it's fine
continue ignoring me when our eyes meet
I have nothing to say to you
but it's funny
how much I could say to her..

Maybe it's a good thing I have a broken heart.
I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd doesn't demand very much;
they just want to be loved.
And giving them a piece of me
is all I'm capable of.
Maybe I'd be happier if my heart was whole.
But I tend to attract broken people
and stray animals.
That crowd requires a lot of love
and needs me to be there.
And if my heart wasn't in pieces,
it'd be much harder to share.

it only makes sense
that a girl who wants to die
should fall for a man who wants to **** her

The height of her heels
    Shrunk with every passing year.
Each "December", torn away from the calender
   Was a buzz saw, sometimes taking a sixteenth of an inch,
   And during winters that seemed particularly cold to her bones
   Nearly a quarter of an inch would be devoured by time's steady march.

At 18 her heels were confident, tall, strong,
   Proud pillars supporting the pantheon,
   Complete with Houdini-zippers and unnecessary birthstone buttons.
The Uncomfortable beds
   Of the comfort class.

At 26 her friends whispered,
   With martini breath,
   That they could swear that she had shrunk.
One suggested that she had simply adopted a new hairstyle.
After all, who has time to daily consort with the curling iron
   And still make the 6:47?
Good friends make for the worst critics.

At 41, on certain nights,
   Like when the Jove's had their annual tree-trimming party,
   Believable sources say she could still be be seen
   With 1/4 inch tree-trunks beneath her feet.
There were no buttons or zippers any longer,
   To announce her presence as made her across linoleum deserts
   Towards the desserts.
Her footprint was further softened
   By the Doctor-demanded cushion,
   Which eased the weathering toll of
   Each.
   Next.
   Step.
Everyone at the part paid words to her image:
   "Such soft skin."
   "Eyes that look truer blue after each blink."
   "Pilates or Yoga?  I have to know you secret."
But none of the husband saw her on their eyelids
    As they masturbated in the shower that night.

At 70 her wrinkled dignified carriers
   Were most at home in slippers.
She rarely removed them,
   'Cept when she let her toes soak like veteran driftwood
   In a well deserved baby warm tub.
For some reason the "News" insisted on covering award ceremonies
   And she would always feel a sharp
   Pain ping-pong between her heel and toenails
   As she watched the young actresses climb each step towards the podium.
She would still go out, now and then,
   But nobody noted the style or color that her feet were wrapped in.
   Why would they?
For the record:
   Plain, black, flats.
   Appropriately

She died at 82
   And although the casket was closed,
   It can be taken on good authority
   That this regal eagle of a woman
   Was buried barefoot.

I like to think that she is flexing her feet
   Somewhere eternal,
   Just to see how the sand feels
   Between her toes

Dear Jade,

1. Your mother called you curvy. You mistook it for fat. A permanent reminder in your thigh.

2. The night he broke you. You perceived his uncontrollable lust as a result of your drunkenness. This was punishment.

3,4,5. Food. A scar for every one hundred calories you consumed that day.

6. The result of a suicide attempt. All the bleach in the world couldn't clean this mess.

7. Your plant died. When it did, a part of you died with it. I think you were just looking for a reason to fall apart.

8. Your grandmother died and you didn't cry. This was a reminder you could still feel.

9. FAT again. You gained three pounds and your jeans almost fit.

10. Probably needed stitches. You just wanted to see some blood.

11. Your scars were fading. You couldn't bear to see them go. Start over.

It would take me a lifetime to write the reasons behind every one of your scars.
Please. Let this be enough.
Let me enough. Love me.

I look in the mirror
I can only see pieces.
You have taken so much of me, darling.
There are holes the shape of your hands
all over my body.
Big and gaping.
I don't remember what I look like without them.

You were real.
I had fallen in love with words
in a letter before.
With promises made
over telephone lines
thousands of miles apart.  
You were real.
Skin and bones.
Big hands and blue eyes.
For six months
I fell asleep to your voice.
I don't sleep much anymore.

We were just friends.
You didn't want me
but you gave me the stars
and your lips and those
hands--******* those hands.
You didn't want commitment
but if I could have just kept your mouth
on my mouth and my legs around
your waist
If I could have kept you
in the backseat of your car
If I could have made the stars
hang in the sky forever
If I—
I didn't want to fall in love with you.
You should have never held my hand.
You should have stayed.

There's a sad boy who loves me now.
We're just friends
but I give him my body and sometimes
when I close my eyes, his hands
feel like yours.
I don't tell him I love him.
He knows I couldn't.
The sad understand—
we only love the ones
who can't love us back.

At night,
my fingers itch and
I write you letters
you will never read.
It's always the same
two sentences:
*Never tell a sad girl
you love her.
She won't believe you
until you leave her.