TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.

He said she'd bleed on him;
Said that everyone
Was bleeding out,
****** gestures all around.

But despite his
Drug-addled mind,
This moment of false
Clarity rung in the
Bleached hospital room.

I don't think he meant
That she was bleeding on him
The way a cut bleeds
When you take a razor to
Your arms;
He meant the bleeding hearts
The eyes of the people
The eyes of god
Welling with ****** tears
Whenever they look
Down
On him in the bed
With a pity that
Makes even my stomach turn.

The world needs
a man like
The Doctor.
Doctor Who,
Or
∂³∑x²
(His real name)
I just wish
I had him
So
He could help me when I
Needed him.

Someone asked me the other day
"Do you like her?"
I thought for a second and smiled,
"Yes, yes I do."

"God, you're such a lesbian!"
I smiled and replied with,
"I know."
And kept on walking.

Later in the day
People were staring at me
And
Calling me names.

I held my head up
High
And smiled.

Nobody will stand in my way.

Where can you even summon the audacity
To tell me that lately you have been mad at me
For building up a little bit of self worth in my head
Am I wrong for no longer wishing I was dead?
"I miss the way you used to act,  
So nice, I want the old you back"
The old me? That self hating *******?
Who only was happy on his ***, ****** or plastered?
You don't know what it's like, you **** fool
You've never been afraid of the judgement at school
You've never been called ******, ******, or four eyes
You've never thought of a compliment as more lies
You have no idea how the **** I felt
I beat myself, left bruises, welts
It was middle school, when I found out new ways
Of popping pills in class to get through the days
Well I guess now, sure, i'm popular enough
But I still have that sickening feeling in my guts
The reminder, I was that fat kid that everyone bullied,
Don't ever judge me, you don't ******* know me.

She wishes for different colored eyes,
"Blue's just overrated"
She wishes for thinner thighs,
Her legs leave her aggravated,

"My stomach is so gigantic"
She says while halfway frowning,
"My ****'s just too titanic"
In low self esteem she's drowning,

Compliments a'plenty,
I try to prove her wrong,
I love her more than any-
thing, that's why I wrote this song,

I say you're beautiful,
Everyday I make sure to,
But your mirror and your mind,
They're playing tricks on you,

You're so **** perfect,
Yet you live life without
Thinking you're worth it,
I admit, it freaks me out

When your insecurities,
Keep bad thoughts afloat,
But the cure to me,
Might be in this song I wrote

I say it's gonna be okay,
Everyday I make sure to,
But your mirror and your mind
Are playing tricks on you.

No thoughts were thrown around,
let alone conscious decisions bound
in clear evidence and concrete fence-post facts.

She was awake before the frost settled,
and my how her eyes showed the time:
Lengthy red lines pretending to be hands that chimed.

The parkland grasses awaited the
speckled dappled, sunlight shade,
to warm its back in the morning masquerade.

-

Only her body was thrown around,
alone across a car bonnet
in a clear honest, beautiful smudge of fashion and blood.

She would never awake the same again,
and how the nurses soothed her pain
with modern miracle, clear liquid rain, medicine.

The parkland grasses still await the
speckled dappled, sunlight shade,
to warm its back in the morning death march masquerade.

Today she finally
Painted over her toenails
In that icky
Sticky
Thick
Bubblegum pink color
That her
drunk father
bought her for christmas

And it had a number
On the cap
And she didn't know what it stood for
But she thought that since the number was
783
Then it didn't stand for the kind.
Because who knew L'Oreal sold
That many bottles of nail polish?
How many different kinds of pink
Could there be?

She actually didn't care.
Because the only reason that she was doing it
Was to cover up
That bluish
Tint
That you get
In your finger and toenails
When you don't eat.

And before she could paint the last toe
Her drunk father came in
And shot her dead.
But she felt nothing
Because the squashed up metal
Bullet
Went straight through her stomach
Which was
Empty
Because she didn't eat.

And her toes were
All the way dry
By the time the police
Showed up.

She was f-u-l-l and stuffed to the brim.
Not another thing could be shoved down her throat
She was silent though,
Deathly quiet because she was in actuality
E-m-p-t-y,
Empty of food, that is.
She was full of emotion and feelings and
Suicides
Her wrists whispered those attempts
And her legs moaned those failed tries
Her throat ached with pills stuck there
And her neck was ringed red with burns
Her blue nails wailed underfed
Her blue lips screamed lacking.
So she took a k-n-i-f-e,
A big, butchered blade
A laid it flat against her sewn on skin.
And she shaved off the first layer of shield
And then she swiped off the second layer
To reveal nothing but words underneath,
Crawling out like spiders and centipedes.
She screamed and shook them away onto the floor.
Then she took that k-n-i-f-e,
That big, butchered blade,
And pressed it to her battered heart
And let it slide in with slow precision.
And she didn't feel anything because there was nothing there.
And she let the words crumple to the tile
Along with those bright red droplets of
Tears.
By the time she was found, she was no longer
F-u-l-l,
But rather very very
*E-m-p-t-y