I do not have a ****** heart..
It's been ****** with,
And torn apart..
My heart is a *******,
Getting payed with love-filled lies.
My ****** body isn't yet caught up.
I gave all that was inside of me,
Trying to protect what I was born with,
My cleanliness, my virginity,
My purity..
My ****** body is white, pure, clean.
But my heart is black, broken, dead..
Waiting to be revived.
So please, revive my heart..
But don't take my body..

She is the goddess,
all-receptive and coagulating
eternally to shift with
our rhythms, our wants,
our needs.

She is as old
as all the dark rivers
that coalesce into the
perfection of the sea.

She is the lady
who opens herself
and ushers us onto
our golden throne,
and urges us to drink
from her ******
chalice.

She was alive in the Way,
and in the Water,
and in the Moon,
and in the Blood
of the Ages that flows
still in the veins of a
hidden world.

She is the perfect wife,
the wise crone,
the impetuous harlot,
ill of temper and all-forgiving.

You enticed me with a voice like sugar, slowly coating every corner of my mind. Seduced i was by the movements of your body like waves on the ocean. You bound me with hair like snakes of fire crawling their way through my soul. You Keep me happy with the joy that I feel whenever you laugh or are having fun. You stole my heart and were the gentlest Person in the history of the world with it. You Drew me in with your locks of red and bosoms aplenty. While we were in Agressive relations the entire world seemed to dissapear other than me and you for 10 minutes to 5 hours plus. You consumed me mind, body and soul and i tried to consume you mind, body and soul. Then when we were all done i felt like it was my fault but i realize it was you just spreading your wings to go consume another never killing only draining. Always remaining with a chunk of my heart and I with yours. We will forever be a part of each other and i will always love you. Besides the stars say it and so shall it be.

i bite my nails
and i bite my lips

my room is a mess
and i pick at dead skin

i look in the mirror when i
first wake up
and right before bed

i fall too hard
and i bruise too easily

and i write about boys
who will never love me

at 4 years old, she rode a horse for the first time and
felt this sensation  she thought only a book could give her.
at 7 years old, she caught her dad coming in the house
with someone else’s lips on his neck and all she
could remember was how red they were, similar to the roses he
brought home on valentines day every year
(he only brought home seven, the other five were hidden).
at 15 years old, she told a boy she loved him,
but she was talking to someone else.
at 16 years old, she chose me.
at 16 years old, she gave me herself for the first time.
at 16 years old, we got caught by the cops.
at 16 years old, i told her i loved her.
at 18 years old, she cried her eyes out because i didn’t love her
anymore (or so she thought).
at 19 years old, she chose someone else.
at 25 years old, i think she married him.
at 32 years old, i think she was looking for me in the deepest parts of her
mind, but she forced herself to forget how my voice sounded
at 6am when i woke up from her shoulders fourteen years ago.

i think she wanted to me to write this,
but its become a prayer to me how i’ve said her name
under my breath when a priest passes me by.
i think my lips are the same color as the women your
father cheated with, but they’ve been stained with blood
because i don’t want to lose the way you said i love you.
i think too much, and i lost perception on what’s a dream anymore.
god doesn’t wake up in time at 4am to answer my prayers anymore.