she was a good christian girl; long brown hair, never dyed, with pretty brown eyes that only wore makeup on Sundays; her 'only God can judge us' attitude a red balloon in a bare room where people didn't really understand her conviction.

he was not in the prediction; bad boy streak with brows pierced and arms inked, he smelled of cigarette smoke and broken dreams and everything she wasn't allowed to be; she liked it.

What is it that makes me me?

Am I;
The angry girl?
Or the depressed?
The dyslexic
Or the gay?
The kind,
Or ******?
The manipulative,
Or the naive?

What is it that makes me me?

Tough question,
I change a lot.
I’m all of the above
And none of the above

Who am I?

I’m inconsistent,
And a pain
And a good friend

Maintaining control
is the stage where the predator
will do anything to keep his victim
a victim
He sits on the couch
With his arm slung over you
His breath is sour with alcohol
And cruelty
Knowing that he has power over you
There will be no changing the story
The story that contains
Both you and him
Is not your and his story
It is only his, and it will only ever be his
Because of him, you have been completely and utterly
Diminished

we are three.
we are different. different energies.
but we bounce off each other.

each deserving of each other.
each being as one.
everything is better in three.

although three can sometimes bleed
one leaves now it’s only two
you. my person.

i never used to smoke
but since you left,
it’s the only time i can seem to breathe

I think I
got bad
at poetry.

i love the silence of a snowy winter night
where all you can hear is your breath and the crunch of the snow beneath your feet
the moon is in libra but tonight her beauty is covered by thick grey clouds
but still she is there