At night I cry myself to sleep
And pray that I forget him
All day through I masquerade
As if I don't still miss him

I think about him every night
And tears roll down my cheek
He left without so much as goodbye
Someone else's love to seek

He said he'd love me forever
Well that didn't last very long
We'd never split he told me
I guess he told me wrong

What happened to all those promises
He made along the way?
To love and cherish and hold me
And by my side to stay?

They're broken now; just like my heart
With pieces scattered around
He told me so many beautiful things
But he lied a lot I've found

Every inch of our ceiling
is bruised in memory,
watercoloured blues
fade into last Summer's browns.
It hurts.
Night brings the poetry
I'm still trying not to trip over,
the written and spoken wounds
that mark my body
still spell out your favourite weapons:

1) Ginsberg
2) Naivety
3) Perpetuated incompleteness.

I am anatomically structured for
falling apart with one cut heart string
at a time; a countdown only I control.
One only you tick for.

One day you'll learn
that the world is made from tissue paper,
and tears as easily as I.

I have tied heart strings around my neck
and hoped the blurred vision of my
somewhat self destructive nature
would take away the optic curses
that disallow me to see what I cannot heal.

Sharpened question marks
hook into the aged rings in my flesh.
Left out for too long; forgotten.
He tries not to cry as
suspended interrogatives pull at limbs
and hang body over a myriad of "who?" or "why?"
(I forget which).

I am both the antique puppet and the
incandescent hole in the puppet master's chest,
taught to love my wooden creators
and fall in love with anything
that helps me forget about the skeletons
within my bloodstream.
Pull my strings.
Watch me come undone.