your ******* ******* hips
i'll never sleep
because thinking of you
keeps me licking my lips

We have this habit of making homes
out of people who tend
to burn any moment.

And we keep collecting the ashes,
putting them in jars,
hoping to save what little remains.

We made ourselves believe that other people
are remedies; prescribing—injecting ourselves with drugs
that walk and talk and breathe

And I have long since realized that we have seas inside us,
and there are a thousand shipwrecks aching for freedom,
but we hold on to every damaged piece.

I write about abandoned homes,
and forgotten souls, and memories
that creep in the darkest corners of my mind;

I write about loneliness,
and broken promises,
and words carved on my skin,

I write about the bloodstains on the snow,
and the remains of a car crash,
and how the wind hums a sad song

I write about the wolf
who cries at night,
howling for the moon’s response,

I write about shattered windows,
about empty halls,
and places with the stench of alcohol and regret

I write about cracks on the walls
and shadows that scare
the hell out of people,

I write about how that boy’s father died,
how his mother left,
and how that girl took her own life.

You see, I only write about tragedies;

don’t make me write about you.

There will come a time when the night air
won’t send chills down my spine
for it will no longer whisper your name.

I will stop telling stories about you,
for the moon has grew tired of hearing them
and weariness is an awful thing to feel.

The stars would appear
brighter than your eyes,
and I would hear lullabies again.

The winds would be warm,
the seas won’t crash waves,
and I will no longer drown.

i want to dye
my hair and tattoo my skin
so that the changes
you’ve been noticing in me
look like they’re
on purpose.