You know more about me
than any stranger should.
You know more about me
than any friend could.
It's not always easy
to post the things I write
Because they are more of myself,
that I don't like to share.
My poems are me and me alone.
I hope you like them,
but more, I hope you like me,
even if I'm a mess.

Even after all this time
You're still stained on my hands
Lining every crease
Embedded in my nails

I've tried to rid myself of you
Scrubbed my hands raw
Leaving pink and cracked skin
But your residue remains

I won't stop scrubbing till you're gone
Because God forbid
I accidentally stain someone else
With traces of *you

We stand face to face, legs spread apart
Like two outlaws dueling in an old Western

Fingers twitching
Eager to get the first shot

We reach for our weapons simultaneously
Shot after shot filling our secluded battlefield

A vein in your forehead pulsing in frustration and concentration
I dodge everything you throw my way

A shot grazes my skin
The stinging of a paper cut, magnified

You loom over me
Your shadow swallowing me whole

Weapon rising above me slowly, painfully slow
I do nothing to avoid your final blow

My mouth contorts into a wince
Eyes closing involuntarily

The shot pierced me
Straight through the heart

Perfect aim.

Dread coursing through me
It spills over in a single teardrop

There's no such thing as a "word wound"  
No hospital will ever admit me

Even if it's far more damaging
Than any bullet

Sprinting--arms pumping, heart racing
Trying my best to destroy
A thought bubble of you

Slipping--dodging, avoiding my grasp
Each and every time
I go to pop the memory from mind

Multiplying--surrounding, trapping me
Thought bubbles overwhelming me
I promised myself I'd let you go

Finally I relent and allow myself
To drown in my memories of you
Just one more time

You're just a **** maze

And I'm really struggling

To find my way out

I wouldn't have thought

That my only kryptonite

Would end up as you

I wonder what would happen
If I were to
Go blind

Thoughts this grim
Shouldn't plague a young girl
Like me

It's ironic that
The only constant in life
Is change

At night, all I do
Is think in
Unfinished poems