Faith will empty you

Strange, but true

And love I never knew

Still my love grew



When you were held in my dying breath

And angels I thought came down

Nothing feels quite like death

But you in your pity would drown



And feeling sick of mice and men

You took me and said, "but then again",

We talked, but that didn't matter until the kiss

You struck me, and never missed



Faith will empty you

Strange, but true

And love I never knew

Still my love grew and grew

knowing you seemed to **** some life out of me
my efforts were a collection of habits that you superimposed to my mind
anything i knew was based around you
the coffee in the morning i thought woke me up,
was really only thrilling because you were the one serving it
drinking it black-
since it seemed to be a reflection of your heart

If you were to come to me in the form
of a paper person linked by the knuckles
of other paper people, I would decorate
you with thick markers and call you
my soldier. I'd crown you in yellow smudges,
give you a sword out yarn and some cheap
glue.

You came to me in the form of a leftover
sports player with knees that needed therapy
and a size too big gym shorts. I fell for the sound
of you hitting your head off the microwave
when we were trying to kiss in my kitchen,
the way your hair felt in the spaces between
my fingers, how you always took the left
sock off before the right. I made you
into the paper figure next to mine, the half
who's creases matched up perfectly,
who we wanted the same exact things
as I. If you were to come to me now
in the form of water I'd boil you to make tea.
I'd put three sugars into you when you beg
me for none. I'd make you into some tragedy
that I'd hide underneath my bed in the way
of nasty journal entries and tired poems.
I'd love you like a miracle, like a prayer,
when really you are just a guy
who loves funny movies and can't
wake up for breakfast on time.

No matter how hard I try
The ink blothches on the page,
The paint on the canvas,
The pencil on the paper,
They will never transform
Into real life

Please don't say you're obsessed with me
I've had quite enough of obsessive love
It never works out right
I just want you to love me
Love my temper and my moods and my heart full of contempt
Love my laugh and my smile and
my hands full of love
But don't say you're obsessed with me
It never works out right

The timing was all wrong...
so I made it right.

I refuse to apologize for the things I've written.
I refuse to apologize for telling truths amongst the cacophony in rhymes, or rhythms, or word *****.
I refuse to not own this brain, to regret my depression, to swallow my anxiety with a pill.
I will not lie, as my family expands and my brain reconforms to standards I forgot, it gets harder to dig up the person that bled for these words.
She and I aren't the same anymore, but we belong to the same body.
So I call on her when I need her, let myself really feel everything, my alter ego: the poet.
As my boyfriend's family asks me what I do for fun, I try not to lie. To say that I pour words from my soul is distasteful. So I joke "I'm a poet of sorts, a writer."
And they look at me with frightened eyes, so I do not tell them this is what I want to do for a living.
I do not tell them about the razor blades beneath my bed at age 16, or the ****** assault at 20.
I do not tell them inside this head is a mess that is desperately hiding.
But I do not disown her. My mess. My poet heart.