I kissed a boy,
Who's neck was bare from faith.
Empty all around.
His lips tasted like sin ,
But his touch felt like nearby repenting.
I wonder what his mother would have thought.
I wonder if those knowledgeable creases placed on his neck mean more to me than it does to him.

This was inspired off of the work of 'Atheist on a Date'. I wish I knew who to credit, but I don't. None of the less, all credit goes to whoever wrote this masterpiece. I hope you enjoy the reply.

*Original Poem:
“I kissed a girl
Wearing a cross
Around her neck
Her lips didn’t taste
Like church
But her hips
Felt like god
I wonder what
Her pastor would
Have thought
I wonder if that
Cross around her neck
Meant more to me
Than it does
To her”

we've ran this marathon before, love
don't let me trip

babe. you're a ******* animal.
a warm and laughing mammal when you watch me breathe.
when we're playing out on a field of sheets,
and the window lighting hugs the edges of your face
you look like the leader of your pack.
and when you pin me down,
like a lion to it's prey,
i feel myself begin to pray.
for you to ruin me,
for me to claw and roar,
for us to become animals.
every time your lips drag across my skin
i feel i've entered the animal kingdom
and you've sat me on a throne
and you whisper sweet nothings,
tendering my assignment to position: queen.
when i feel the stars build up in my brain
and my breathing devoid of proper pace
i remember how much of an animal you are
and how badly i need you to take me down.

why is it that
i frequently run lines of chapstick
over my lips
when a stranger's
hasn't come in contact
in the longest time
and probably won't
for the rest

today i slept in my bed for the first time since you've left.
i even used your pillow.
i smothered my face along the threads, trying to contract any past scent i could try and find.
on some cream colored sheets where we found more than love,
it's not fun going at it alone.
a piece of me wishes you'd smoked a cigarette.
so even the ash fumbled into my eyes,
i could cry with you in me.
god. oh good god,
i miss waking up next to you.

there is comfort
in living in black
the devoid of color
makes life seem more meaningful
as if pain has got it's bludgening purpose

but then you came along
sprouted from the ground
petals in pastels and colors all around
and my god

i'll keep my eyes open forever
if it means the black has gone to color
and you promise me that you'll never find
any other

Night is a witch in disguise.
When the playful sun joins hand with it's faithful blue and falls to the other side, the dark has come out to play.
It is her turn to run wild.
Clouds from her crystal ball ooze from it's glass, finding way to it's victims.
Omniscient to our every move, she understands our weaknesses.
The enticing allurement drips from her finger tips.
We are offered vices mostly in her power hours.
She's mixed our fates into a cauldron, laughing at our petty emotions.
And as she laughs - I think it's funny how they say we can't see in the dark, yet people reveal the most in the spell of the night.
Nobody understands the ways of the eve.

every year a card is made
from stiff hands and clumsy thoughts
telling of thanks to the squishing of bugs and scaring off monsters
the building of playgrounds and faith to trudge on
for having the ability to always find a cloth to wipe my tears from
66 years of a divine existence
don't leave me any time soon
that wouldn't be divine at all

Half empty, or half full - they say.
Little were they aware that you were both measurements at their limit.

You were fulfilled with promise, and a vision of joy. Although you lacked the hydration of returning favors, and drove me off before I could even start the engine.

I didn't know whether to take a drink, or to leave you stale.
I still don't know.

I remember your laugh.
I remember your lost taste in words.
I remember your love for that pop punk band that invited you to pity parties.
I remember nights spent talking to you, instead of getting sleep.

I try not to remember those the most.

I remember how excited we were to see one another.
I remember your wit the first time we met.
I remember that you were going to be my first.
I remember the Kapowski top I rushed to buy you.

I still remember shakily scanning my card through the register.

I remember the first night you didn't answer my call.
I remember worrying I had done something wrong.
I remember learning her name.
I remember drinking in spite of your hatred towards it.
I remember wearing that top, laughing and screaming and dancing and crying and wanting to rip it to shreds.
I remember heading to return it, answering in monotone when asked,
"Is there anything wrong with the top?"
"No. I just don't like it any more."

I still remember learning her name.
I still think it's beautiful.
Just like how you didn't think I was.
I will always ******* remember.

i'm trying to go to sleep
but even the pills can't wash you out
everything used to be so effortless
i believed in somebody for once
and just like that
like the ***** to the bottle
i was empty of faith

Phone calls, lonely sheets.
Warm bodies, and cold feet.
Soft touch, hard kisses.
Imposed beliefs, and forgotten wishes.
Dancing silly, writing serious.
Long distance love is thought to be delirious.
Maybe they were right, since it's done now.
Though your contour still wrinkles in my sheets somehow.
Thinking of you I can feel happy, or I can feel numb.
You left behind far too many love crumbs.

Hands clinging to rocks against the mountain side,
strands of hair falling to my face.
Almost to the top, just one more step.
"Pull up your socks!" Everyone below yells, nagging me to do so.
I ignore, focusing to make my way to the peak.
"Pull up your socks!" The repeat, daggering at my toes.
I am anything but a child of theirs.
I continue on.
"Pull up your socks!" They scream again, my eyes rolling.
I arrive to the top.

is it normal
to grow deathly afraid
of the bacteria in your throat
is it normal
to pleasure your system
when you don't even smoke
is it normal
to be in love with the warmth
when it knocks you out
is it normal
to space out in class
and live in the clouds
is it normal
to dream about him
though he doesn't know your name
no, i guess
it's not normal
but should i be ashamed?

I tell tales all the time,
though I can never seem to mutter enough about the future.
Though times I believe miles are put behind me, the constellations fall into line.
And we'll lay stanced in parallel form, though my mind is bent in perpendiculars.
The tips of our fingers placed on another, magnetizing like palms to a mirror.
And when your teeth gnaw on the same places my inelegant tongue follows along my lips,
the flesh that shares with the blood between my bones will warm.
And I'll feel the swelter burn while it sears all control to keep from trembling.
And it's still unclear if I'm gasping or grasping too hard.
And though I have no pastor or god to look up to,
your touch feels like finding faith.
Will these sheets wrinkle or will they tear?
- l.b.

and the worst part is
you don't even care anymore

repetition remains constant
despite it's continuous efforts to be reminded of
over and over, birds chirp in the morning sun
over and over, a vinyl spins on the player
over and over, the world revolves on
while you sat on the other side of the phone
your chest rising with a breath
we exchanged a verbal i love you

and i still can't tell who enjoyed it more
when you whispered longingly
"say it again"

and i repeated it
and i will
over and over

You could have planted daisies in my skin, the way your fingers watered the veined roots along my shoulders. Your lips tasted of lilacs, and your breath hummed restlessly like the thunder outside. The rain trickled against your car's metal frame; parking lot lights protruding in like the morning cathedral window panes. When the storm had yet to cease, you halted my eager palms, and began pointing to my skin. Conjuring up words of praise, the shadows of the rain smiled as you told them they reminded you of a cinema.

There was a bible in the trunk, but we laid ****** and unholy. Like Adam and Eve, but an apple untouched and fingers intertwined. A life without god isn't so bad when you've found heaven on Earth.

You kept me dizzy, my breath finding difficulty to circulate after you frequently grasped it away. I want you to steal me forever.

Our tender hearts wanted to misbehave just a little while longer - but I've been taught that all sacred moments must come to a close. But what they refrain to mention, is that sacred moments immortalize themselves in your brain... and baby, you're never leaving the driver seat in the ride of my mind.

this is irrational. in mathematics, the human reasoning - there will always be some sort of radical fallacy shoved into the equation. you. you sir, are what i call irrational. i can't lie when i say that i'm quite fond over how tall you stand, like a mountain. like a king. you don't rule the valleys and praries of your people, but you've found power along capalliries and veins. this box jutting irregularly in my chest is what you rule. i could construct motes and bridges and stone castle walls to keep you from getting in, but i can't deny i've always wanted to be a queen. your queen. i've never wanted so badly to rule your world. to take the throne and call you mine.

you just don't care anymore
you used to be so caring
you used to make me feel so loved
i could reach my hands out to the stars
and you'd stop my palms from scratching the surface
because you cared if i got burned
but now every day when the sun rises
you don't even mind when i keep staring


i just miss your voice
i miss staying up to hear your voice instead of wishing i could hear it instead
you make me wonder if the human body has a water limit
the crying has to stop at some point, right?

i wanna stop pretending that it doesn't still hurt
i wanna stop crying
i want you to tell me that everything is gonna be okay
you're-
stop crying
stop crying
it's not going to fix anything
we've been through this

i'm so tired

what's the point in loving when it doesn't last?
send.
i mean, you ******* lied to me.
send.
you said we'd be forever.
send.
now you're gone.
send.
and i'm trying so hard to believe in love again, kind of how you ignited it in me once more.
send.
but i can't.
send.
i won't.
*
backspace. delete.
hey, what's up?

there's been much debate in my mind,
on whether love is determined by the heart or the eyes.
do we love most with our vital organs?
aren't they both, wouldn't you say, vital?
by the way we spend currency of sight on someone's treasury,
or by the process of blood coming to a stop - a heart skipping a beat?
both.
i think both is good.

He's put her up on a cross.

She doesn't go to church like everyone else.
She doesn't wear a dress for Easter like everyone else.
She doesn't recite the same verses like everyone else.
She doesn't have the mimicked ideas they all borrow.

In class she doesn't get the allusion to the bible.
She must research.
Though in class there's a boy who says her name sweetly.
In class there's a boy who took her out on a date.
In class there's a boy who took a chance on the girl in all black.
In class there's a boy who whispered all his passions into the palm of her hand.
Will you still love me in the morning?

Standing in the corridors of the temple he knows so well,
he becomes acquainted with the illusion he pushed away.
It is forbidden to love her.
For she is not on the same page as they all are when the service is in place.

He loses the sense of morality.
He doesn't understand her version of faith.
He distrusts in all of her arguments.
He believes she's tricked him into loving her.
He concludes that he couldn't have loved her on his own.
She tricked him.
This isn't him. It just can't be him.
He crushes her bones.
He ignores her screams.
He finishes his prayer.

And there she dangled, his eyes angled up to her own.

He put her on the cross.

you're ******* the life out of me
but i'm still so full of sadness
and i can't even eat
i feel too sick to try and nourish myself
i'm too broken to even attempt it

let me tell you all about driving the back roads of the south
gravel keeping tight while rubber runs at about 95
and father john misty is musing over emma dearest
there's even a town called riverside
with the prettiest tides
setting off fireworks every time i'm headed back home
do you think they do it for us?

most people say it's a gift to have a well working memory. that it comes in handy for exams or introductions or common knowledge or anything else, really. that a well oiled machine of a memory is a blessing, and you should use it to your advantage. i can remember names. i can remember faces. i can remember moments in time or little details about someone.

they tell her that they like her new blouse
they like her shoes with the holes
the skirt hanging on her waist
the bow on her head screaming youth
but does anyone like her heart?

I don't know his habits. I haven't been able to find the wrinkle in his sheets, only the ones on his eyes when we're laughing together. I grow hungry to learn the mapping on his sheets. Plotted points along cotton threads and mangled forms of affection. It's all elementary. He makes me remember adolescence. He is new territory. Past lovers with cerulean tides have washed me onto the land, initiating me to get lost in the forest of his eyes. His skin is like the snow, fair and tends to shiver when I get close. I've yet to decipher these movements. His skin is cold to the touch, but I know behind thick layers of blood, he is warmth. He is love. I sit in my chair, and I observe him more. He moves around the room, dignified and collected. He reminds me of a lion. He reminds me of our animalistic instincts. He reminds me I'm human. He tells jokes. My eyes dart like voyagers through time, through toxic air and straight into his own. There is a war in my mind on whether I could march on for him. His lips are bludgened, red with every crook and valley along the frames. I drink my ruby poison, and my head goes dizzy. It reminds me of how I can't stop staring at his mouth. His mouth that could hold the filaments of my skin between his teeth. I love how he always starts the conversation. He tells me about his dreams, his passions, his wants. I take notes. Precise ones. I memorize them. He reminds me of a 20's man charmer, hair slicked back and smirking as he talks it up. I think he finds joy in how I listen. I'd love to think it makes him feel wise. In an archaic wasteland, I picture us tangled in vines. I can't figure whether we're in love, or just trying to be. He's standing there at the top step. I'm always looking up. Maybe he doesn't want to look down on me, because he holds me in a higher regard than that. A girl is allowed to wonder. I still don't know his habits. In fact, I don't know him at all.

But I know there is something here.

there's too much substance in my system for me to care about what happens or who will read this and hopefully nobody does because who the **** cares who the **** ever cares and i'm just so ******* confused and i keep downing the drinks and hoping that i'm not worried about thinking of your smile or how your voice said goodnight and you

i've cried enough to cure a drought
i went to go see some pretty flowers
to take my mind off the pain
and i thought about the countless nights crying
and how these beautiful treasures
deserved those tears
i'm trying to grow
but maybe i need some help
just like the little dandelion
brushing against my knees

but it isn't fair
that even when she wants him she can't have him
he can't pound his hips into hers
he can't tell her how he loves how she speaks
he can't wipe away the tears
he can't dampen her skin with the heavy hold of his touch
he can't hear about her sultry thoughts
because he no longer is going to wait
he can't wait on a girl who is ****** up
even when she wants him
to be the one
to **** her up

don't touch my body
if holding my hand
is going to feel heavier
than the weight of my breath
against your lips

**** girl
you've got a tiny little waist
but i see a universe in your eyes
how does someone so little,
hold so much inside?

it's going to be weird
losing it to somebody else

fires can expand the warmth but your kiss burns deeper

fold the ventricle to the right
the pulmonary to the left
the wrinkled capillaries need to be ironed
pillowcases of vessels need to be thrown in the wash
take one last whiff of his scent
before he's just another sheet in the laundry
***** laundry
clean of heartache

the director of my life
didn't watch enough
romantic comedies