i'm tired of reading between the lines.
i'm tired of digging through the dirt with my fingers,
trying to find something that isn't there.

you were never black or white,
and i used to like living in gray
but now it's the color on my walls
and the paint inside of my eyelids
and I'm getting sick of it.

we used to visit art galleries just after the sun sets
because we didn't want to miss the orange light spilling over the clouds and covering everything up.
it was a masterpiece that was always there but is never the same.
but maybe we liked its absence better -- you'll miss it more if it's always gone, right?

despite the paintings and art pieces we breathed in, there was never color in our story.
we were children's coloring books that never got touched, left to gather dust in an uninhabited nursery of broken dreams.
we were unpainted swing sets that no one bothered to start, let alone finish.
we were clay bars that no one wanted to mould.
we were meant for something more,
i told myself over and over again.

now, it's past the usual bed-time and i'm still digging.
this is why my nails are long, you've always wondered about that.
i'm digging our past back up,
i've tried burying them to fool myself there was never anything there.
i know I'm a fool for trying to get them back,
but these are the only places I could see a hint of color.

i'm tired of living in gray.
i'm tired of treating you like a work of art that needs to be figured out.
you're only with me after the sun sets.
where are you in the morning, except inside my head?
i'm starting to think this is not about absence making you miss me anymore.
i'm starting to think you only ever see me as an art gallery --
a place to visit, but never really stay.

are you happy?
it's the middle of the night and i'm screaming in pain --
my fingers hit something hard.
i'm bleeding red.
i look through the dirt, muddy with my tears, and found the thing my fingers scraped on.
hey, tree roots somehow look like veins.
but they don't drip color when you cut them open, right?
i found a bit of red in my nails, now.

i've been searching for a while, but always in the wrong places.
i think i know where to find color now.
i don't even need to dig.

and yet another soul lost the battle
and succumbed
to the cruel kiss of self-destruction.

"she was so pretty"
"he had such nice eyes"

why didn't you say it when they were alive?
then maybe, you could've saved a life.

her scars may seem too deep for you.
slashes on her wrist,
blue and yellow
bruises on her skin
and under her left eye.

but the deepest scars
are deeper than the skin
under that layer of filth
beneath the blood and bones
lies the most dangerous piece
of humanity
that can be scarred upon.

would you like to see my heart?

she saw the words in your eyes long before you had enough courage to spit it out of your mouth. she was used to goodbyes but she was usually the one who gave it out. now she was on the raw end of the deal and the pain was excruciating -- her heart was pumping so hard her eyes were brimming with tears and when it fell down her mouth she wondered why it tasted salty when it should've tasted like ***** because that's the only liquid she's been taking in ever since you left. she keeps bleeding from her feet because she's been standing on broken glass ever since the day she broke your picture frames and the wineglasses on the kitchen counter and she smashed the mirror right after because it just keeps reminding her how bad of a mess she was and how she couldn't fix it.

the next day she smeared on lipstick and mascara because you liked the natural look and then her phone rang and you met at the cafe across the street where you always had your morning coffee. you were talking and laughing like you wouldn't drop a bomb on her a moment later and you never did. she went home crying and smashing plates again because you left her two weeks ago in your eyes but you still didn't have the courage to say it.

She swallowed love like it was poison, fully aware of what she was doing but then spit it out the moment it reached her throat. She felt its presence like a hardened clump on the back of her mouth, fighting it back with her tongue wrapped with barbed wires but she felt herself bleed long before she could even scratch its surface. Tears started spilling out her eyes as she looked at your brown ones and no matter how hard she tried to explain, she can't put into words how such a muddy color can be so bright -- it could outshine the stars.

The moment her hand enveloped yours she didn't understand how this ******* electric current could be interpreted as romantic. She never liked cliches but she forgot that when you took your clothes off and she ran her hands through your hair and finally thought that maybe, maybe this was something real. She didn't know life outside this box -- she didn't know there was a box until she felt herself becoming so small, shrinking in your presence every single time. It used to be about both of you but now its only about you and she was never one to complain about exploring every inch of your skin with her mouth but this time it was different. The fire in your eyes looked too warm to be comfortable in anymore and the spark you both used to have turned into an inferno that began to burn its way into her veins and that your words cut deeper through her than sharpened knives and your promises were nothing but sugarcoated threats and curses and she knew it would **** her and that this thing everyone fussed about was nothing but poison but ******* it, she'd swallow it if it tasted like you.

i've tried making poetry
spinning silk from cobwebs
sitting in the corners of my mind
trying to sew them
into sweaters that smell like you
so i could sleep at night

ever since i met you
i've been swallowing ball point pens
so i could spit out poems
everytime you cut me open.

there's ink in my veins
and i can't get them out
i can't quit this now, it's too late,
i've become addicted to your mouth

i painted my cheeks red;
you painted it black and blue
you turned me into art right?
i don't understand
why they kept telling me to leave you.

you tell me you don't love me,
and i keep saying i don't care.
i've felt it in your kisses
there's never been a spark in the air

you ask me why
and i tell you:
you're my favorite kind of pain.
not to be cliche, but i'd like to die
whispering your name.

my friends say i'm a fool,
"if it's an addiction, then quit"
but honesty is the best poetry,
and i'm getting pretty good at it.