One.** When you see her for the first time, you'll want to steal a glance at her, but you can't beat her at her own game. She's been a professional heart jacker since the seventh grade, so when she steals a glance from you, don't ever expect to find the composer she robs from your voice.

Two. You'll never need to go to a corner store again. Her purse is a walking pharmacy full of all the things nobody needs more than once in their lifetime. She says that she has stolen so much useless ****, that to her there is no difference between losing everything and losing nothing.

Three. When she stays over for the first time and you're cuddling in bed, cling to the covers for dear life, cause she will yank that **** away from you the second you fall asleep.

Four. Don't get too attached to any of your hoodies. Everything she snatches, she owns indefinitely. Whether it's the hoodie from H&M;, the candle stick from your parents' house, or the guitar she borrowed from the last boy she broke into.

Five. You're best of trying to blur the lines between theft, and sacrifice. So, give her your time when she wants it. Offer her your tongue when her skin is hungry. Give up your sleep, when she rather give you tongue lashings. Give her your Sundays and Mondays, maybe even you Mondays through Sundays. Let her cradle your world in her palms until it is small enough to run away with.

Six. When you stop keeping an eye on your grades, don't be surprised when they go missing.

Seven. When your mother ask why you don't write anymore. Tell her you can't think about poetry when your partner has the keys to your inspiration. Don't worry, she borrowed them a year ago. And you haven't seen them since.

Eight. She will pick pocket your self-esteem. Send you from fearless to feeble the second you leave your secrets on the table.

Nine. I wonder if she's the reason airports ask there passengers not to leave baggage unattended.

Ten. You are baggage she will leave unattended.

Eleven Your skin won't look thicker when it heals.

Twelve. Don't bother retracing your steps to try to find yourself. I promise, there's no point in searching for yourself in a break up, or a break down, or an orange bottle.

Thirteen. I'm starting to realize that love is the most sinister kind of robbery there is. Love is a slow motion stick up you can not get insurance against. Worst part about dating a thief is realizing that after they clean you out., you will never get yourself back.

Fourteen. One day she emerged from 7/11 concealing a bag of erasers, a sponge, and 12 packs of Splenda.
I ask her, "how do you even choose what to steal?".
She said when you're not sure what to take, just take everything.

1.** You can't be good at everything.
2. Someone will always care for humanity, when everyone else have given up.
3. Not everyone will love you.
4. Words can feel like daggers.
5. Romanticizing pain won't make it hurt any less.
6. Hating your father won't change him.
7. You're worth more than just a ****** being.
8. Perfection is an unreachable goal.
9. Not everyone is out to get you.
10. Trusting someone doesn't mean there's a lower risk of them leaving you.

1.
My name is Delilah, how may I help you?
You were blinded by my grace.
You always saw hints of my betrayal.
My friends made it clear to you that I was a
hairdresser.

I cut off your hair an inch every night.
You saw it coming.
You did.
But I'd never cut all your hair off.

2.
Rule number one: Do not get attached.
Do not kiss on the mouth; you'll get attached.

Just because he took your innocence, doesn't mean him not wanting to marry you

(, him not wanting to kiss you anymore
or him not loving you,)

is a good enough reason to cry.

3.
He treats you like a child, yet he expects you to not be clingy, be needy or cry.

He demand you not to hug another boy
(not even your friends),
yet complains you're too desperate for affection.

4.
Prince Charming has a thing for little girls.

Stop being so mature for your age.

5.
Prince Eric has a thing for older women.

Stop being so immature, you're not a child anymore.

6.
Perfection has a girlfriend.
Perfection loved you.
Perfection tastes your wine and lingers on tip of your lips.
Perfection caresses your ******* and whispers sonnets into your ear.
Perfection goes back to his girlfriend.

7.
Leave him.
Leave him.
Scream out "Hallelujah!"
Leave him.
Go back to your Lord.
Leave him.

You stand next to him.
He looks at you as if you aren't there.

Leave him.

His hand touched the handles and not you.

Leave him.

You look at him.

Leave him.

You burn your bible.
You stop praying.

Leave him.

You kiss him, and you no longer think of your Saviour.

Leave him.

You have a new god to worship.

Leave your new god.

Leave him.
Leave him.
Leave him.

You stay.

8.
Your messiah burns your heartache into your wrists as the gospels kisses the flames.

Princes, perfection and new found gods are all weak in front of the All Mighty,

but strong in front of your naive, delusional heart.

There is no more room left for God until you leave him.

But you won't leave him.

9.
My name is Delilah.
I am not a prophet.

10.**
My name is Delilah, how may I help you?

Blood drips down on the glass.
Blood stains are spotted down town in the chambers of anticipation.

Your DNA covers the walls of my heart.

I tried wiping your blood off but it keeps filling up the god ****** bathtub.

Call me Dorian.
Scream my name.
Your blood offends thousands.

Repeat my name and stop slashing your own wrists. Grab mine.

I taste your blood. It's made of prayers and goodbyes.

I built you a temple.
Your blood stains the windows.

Cover up.

I lick the temple clean with the honesty of a preacher.

Don't go home empty handed.
Don't stay fully packed.

I was born into this world by a scared and tired mother, who'd been through every one of life worst pains.
Broken by every hitting and slashed up by every knife I could ever imagine.

A father who was naive and young, and didn't know much other than the fact that anyone and everyone different were to be hated.
A boy who was scared of complicated words and complicated people,
and only liked life behind the cover of dark glasses, until the day his voice was filled with so many voices I had to leave him for my mother who was blinded with pain.

I was suppose to be born into this world with a mother whose words were poetry, who would give me life lessons, who would sing to me in a harsh voice and give me tea on hard mornings.

I was supposed to be born into this world with a father who loved everyone, whose ex-lover was a man who had fought in a world war for his own country, betraying my father, for my father was of the enemy's blood. My father was supposed to be quiet. Only words he ever spoke, was reading out old literature to me on days were the moon was out.


Why did I have to be born with a mother who has had enough, and a father who doesn't know how to love me?

If I could have had the parents I was suppose to, I would be a woman of great knowledge,
who's beauty was strong in every word she spoke, who would've loved herself through every storm.

Yet here I am, knowing nothing except the things I've figured out for myself, or from my friends' mothers, even though my mother would have had stronger lessons to teach than any of theirs.

Here I am, shaking in every word I preach. Dumb sentences that comes out all the time, because I was taught that silence is unpleasant, and I should break it, with words of things I know, (which isn't much, and shall be repeated.)

Here I am, as weak as a young girl can possibly be at this time of night, hating myself as much as I must believe my mother hates herself.
Oscar Wilde once said that all men will be different from their fathers, and all women shall be like their mothers for that is our curse.
I repeat to myself not to be like her, to be a better woman, to be a better mother when I grow older, but how can I?

When she showed me to hate myself, and my dad showed me to hate everyone who isn't like him?

Yet here I am, loving everyone.
Rebelling everything my father told me, for he did not look out for me the slightest.
I still can't rebel against my mother, loving everyone but myself, looking at myself only as the monster in me, and not the other parts.
The parts that somehow still believe that there is a reason I am alive, and that there is a reason these people made me.

There is love, there is hope, there is faith and all these parts are behind this monster- this dragon.

This dragon that I though for so long could only be slayed by pretty boys with nice eyes. But I realize now that I am not a damsel in distress, and that i shall slay it myself. Slay all the self-hatred, all the ugliness and all evil.

A dragon I would not have had, had I have had the poetic mother and the quiet father.

I realize that no matter how much my parents had taught me,
no matter how great my parents had been,
no matter how many lessons and how many old books,
I still wouldn't have been a woman of great knowledge.

I wouldn't have had that knowledge, had I'd not been fighting for all these years, and many years more to come, because of my broken mother and my unloving father.

I think the only way to get to know as much as possible is to slay the dragon, every day, slay it until it bleeds and screams out in pain.
And to remember that the pretty boys won't hurt the dragon and make it disappear as much as you can.
And to remember that you can't always trust the pretty boys to not speak dragons tongue.
And live everyday
fighting it
until
the battle is won.

Which I believe
(deep down)
will happen one day.

Hell is heaven in my mind
Blood is breath
My soul is on fire

Hell is heaven
Pain is pleasure

This is my last happily ever after
as a soldier
of God's abortions

My messiah.
My martyr.
Are you the Anti-Christ?

You were my moon,
my stars,
and a prophet in my eyes.

You carved your promises into my ribs,
used my blood to write down dreams
of you and me.

Then you walked out that door.
I have not seen you since.

Are you a blessing?
Will you come back?

I'm starting to lose faith.

You were my first.
My first everything.
I lost myself in you
and I found myself in you.

I will always hope,
always wish,
always dream
that you will also
be my last.

My last hello,
my last goodbye,
my last good morning,
my last good night,
my last I love you,
and my last breath.

His broken body
crumbles
in your hands.

Life bleeding out
over your fingers,
until you aren’t sure

which of you
is
dying
faster.

A cigarette dangling between the corners of your lips.
Your arms wrapped around my waist.

"Thanks", you say.
Such a tiny word, isn't it?

And yet, still that word makes my skin crawl
and my insides scream out in pure pleasure.

That word is proof you also love me back,
isn't it?
I hope it is.

You're the best thing I have ever had,
and the worst I have ever felt.
You're the cigarette smoke in my lungs
and the alcohol on my lips.
It will always be you and me.
You're tattooed onto my heart.
You own my bones and blood.

But then I saw him.
Young, naive and pretty.
I didn't even know his name.
I only knew he was smiling.
smiling.
He was happy.
I fell in love yet again.

You still have all of me,
my sad lover.
But he who yet not have made
me feel pain and regret,
will always be a dream and a
sweet little affair.

No wonder why they call me
a "****",
for i will always fall for the pure happiness.