Sometimes, even though you reassure me, sometimes I wake up and I wonder if you still like the way I smile

i've always wanted long matches.
i used to be afraid of fire, afraid of the oven, afraid of heat
and then my 8th grade science teacher forced everyone to individually go in front of the class, strike a match, and light a burner
and though my hands were shaking
i got over it
so now i see the extra long matches in the store and i want them
to strike over and over
maybe light candles
and my hands won't shake, i don't think

sometimes when you're delirious, shirt off, still looking at the ceiling instead of at a screen,
you suggest things we could do
and sometimes i mistake the suggestions for things you think we should do,
so now i try not to take coulds too seriously
because ideas are not plans.

i like the needles in my chest
i like it when you wiggle them around
my flesh is so twitchy
itching lately to get you off my mind
but i can't manage. (i like you there)
taking in long slow breaths so my lungs don't bash my heart and ribs
trying hard not to write another love poem

but god, when you say my name...
-
i like it when my arms swim and float around the glares of light
i like it when my arms find their way to a place wrapped with you
-
this is a love poem

i hope you sleep well and don't have dreams of cement blocks tied to your ankles while you're diving off the dock.
i hope your leather bound heart keeps all the ink in and that you trust yourself with a ******* pen, i hope you mean every kiss,
i hope everyone starts telling the truth,
starts making it clear,
"never let someone you love doubt that you love them."

i'm infatuated and stupid for it

you are a grave and I am the flowers
you wait for me ever so softly...
I try to be pretty, you try to remember
just let your brain melt out so smoothly...
there is no more grass surrounding your tombstone
and I struggle hard to survive...
You reach up and pull me under the soil
"come on, you're a waste being alive."

It's 4am and I am hungry but ignoring it
I am failing but ignoring it
I have put my dreams into the back pocket of jeans that are a little too big for me now
because things have changed
(me especially)

It's 4am and I am not sure I care if I fail or succeed
what would make me a failure, anyway
and whose terms am I living on?

My best friend was in my dream last night
happy and dancing beside me again
and nobody ripped their bones in half
or bit through their lips
or drowned.

Exploring the dirt
chance in my pocket
nothing but a backpack and hope
that I will never
ever
get bored

I ******* hate it when people say "scars are beautiful"
because what is ******* beautiful about
2am and rummaging through rooms to find something sharp
desperation clawing in the back of your throat
because you can't breathe this time until you bleed again
What the **** is beautiful about the emptiness you feel
when pressing a razor to your skin
(and there is nothing behind your ribs, you stone-cold *****)
What is beautiful about the moment you finally 'wake up'
and realize what you've done and who will have to see this
("No, I'm fine, No, it's not your fault it's not your fault it's not your-")
What is beautiful about the next morning
or the next week
the next month
when the mark is still there
to ******* remind you
(you can't run from the past)

i don't think i know who i am anymore.
i know what i do
stuff i like
but *******
i s  t h i s  m y  b o d y ?
my fingers are just some girl's fingers
my brain just a brain
forcing me through the actions.
where'd my mind go?
am i finally boring?
does boring mean i can rest in peace,
or is this the beginning of a long cycle of discovery where I go back and forth of growing out of myself and fitting back into my skin ?

it feels like a classic cliche
walking hand in hand through arteries
when you are gone, so is half of me
everyone should find someone who let's them say anything
With you, I am a bleeding heart ready to place myself in the palm of your hand for a tiny squeeze of life before tucking back into my rib cage
And it is not too much or dependence
And this is the love I've always wanted

i'm sorry i'm never sure
but i never am.
I want to get high because I'm tired of a lot
and I'm cleaning up my room but i'll never learn to clean up my act
and what would be the point of that, anyway
(what's the point in anything)
(what's the point in any of this)
tired of planning and hoping and dreaming of success
when i can't even think of what success is
when walking around strung out
seeing in black and white
lighting up and stumbling through bed sheets
doesn't sound so ******* bad
because you can't be bored if you're a drug addict, right?
i've already got my tombstone picked out
i've already drowned and i'll already die in a car crash
or get ***** in a city
and why do my nightmares get so tragic
when i've never really experienced a tragedy
Maybe we are all just walking tragedies
waiting for our time of disaster
SOME DAYS I HAVE HOPE
SOME DAYS I HOPE FOR AN OVERDOSE

godddddd i am just trying to enjoy the time i have but sometimes i don't know how i ***** that up so easily

It smells like
pizza
and
***
and I am still a
pizza-less
******.

wondering where my veins are
parallel with consonants
wish i knew how to communicate without
darting eyes
and twitchy fingers
every vowel sound you make gets stuck on my eardrum
we echo
and i hear it every time the clock i can't find but keep hearing in my room ticks
i didn't think i had a clock
it's so loud when i'm trying to sleep

i wonder where your hands will be in a year
i dream your fingers might still intertwine with mine

We are the backwards
sleeping in underwear and crawling through covers
to hide from the only person that has seen every part of us.
They always find us, though,
so we burrow into their shoulders...
hoping their scent will act as medicine.

And it does.

I just have scenarios in my head where I get to turn to you and be so open and honest
and we're laying in your bed and I feel so present and there and real
and we're both physically tired but mentally racing
and I ask you if you really believe in love...in all of this
and I ask you to explain what you feel with me
and you don't think it's dumb, and I can't imagine what you say.
maybe one day soon the scenario will play out
but daydreams are just daydreams
maybe I'll ask you anyway

Don't worry about me
When I write,
I usually just need sleep

maybe you were only saying those things because it was the middle of the night
and the moon made you delirious
but can i say them back in the middle of the day
when the sun makes me high?

I'm sorry you're so clinically sad
and I'm sorry I don't know what you're thinking
I'm sorry I keep apologizing for things that aren't my fault
but I wish I could help you (in some way, any way)
I wish you would let me

when we were drunk,
i had sober thoughts of how handsome you were
(what kept me from saying it out loud?)
when we were sober,
i had drunk thoughts of how handsome you were
(what kept me from saying it out loud?)

I want to tell you so many things about yourself,
I want you to know that
I'm not sure when you began to mean so much to me,
but it feels like it's always been this way

I want your lips to tremble as I look you in the eye
and hook my fingers in your belt loops.
Lick my lips,
I am a big meal to take in,
and being a bad influence takes a lot of work, you know.

i daydream of last summer
or this weekend
sitting in your arms
or resting my head on your legs when i can't make myself sit straight
(you stopped the truck to park before you took me home)
tell me straight up

i know you're not talking about me
i know you're not talking about me

don't worry about me, it's not your job to
don't worry about the way I sleep
or the way I keep
my sanity.
I know a few people who care more about me than I care about myself

I haven't felt like writing much, lately
I haven't felt like a lot of things I used to
I haven't felt

wish I'd paint my entire face pink so you'd never see me blush
(or always see me blush)
wish I could tell you what I really want

it's so nice to move and glide and jump
and forget about everything but my own ******* body

I think I could start smoking and start dying
and stop caring and keep crying.

**** my skin,
tear
tear
tear it apart
with my anxious nails and teeth
and razor blades
I am my own brain surgeon
constantly picking
trying to figure out what is wrong with me.

I want you to take me into the woods again
mix my flesh with bark
and I can go home
****** with leaves in my hair
because sometimes there is no point in being good.
What is good, anyway?

stop worrying so much about the future
because the future never comes, remember?

most of my feelings are pointless insecurities that i'd be better off shaking out
BUT REMINDER:
AT LEAST I AM FEELING

you've given me good memories in backseats
(we're getting good at 'being bad')
we could get into actual trouble
and i'd still do it all over again tomorrow

sometimes things flip,
like my stomach
or my nerves
or the tone of your voice

i peeled off my bottom lip
and burned off all my flesh
and stayed underwater until my lungs caved in
because it seemed fascinating

man, i can spend my entire day
hoping to see you

too afraid to say the words i've planned out in my head
and rolled over my tongue
but too afraid to open my ******* mouth

Red tinted teeth
Stained nicotine
I am so comfortable alone, but only after I've checked each closet for monsters

even my insecurities take up a mere fraction of my mind
when i'm still so focused on your smile and bedroom and small wave, telling me to move closer

i don't have much room to dwell on my bad thoughts for too long

regardless, it's too late, i'm not taking care of myself,
and i'm really glad you still like me enough
to hug me tightly when i need it

but i have always been and will always be a girl who doesn't like to need very much

But next to my tombstone, sunflowers won't grow,
and what would it matter anyway,
I wouldn't be there to see them

not sure about much
not sure about anything, really
not sure of the last time you weren't floating around my head
wish I thought of myself as much as I think of you

****

I've been liking myself lately
and it's a different feeling,
but I think it's a good one.

freezing girl wonders
"what is interesting
and is it better than happy"
and i say
"always
but dear,
be boring if you can"

is there something to be said about this?
letting it out, but only quietly
only in secret
speaking into the void so no one hears me thinking
i think it'd be embarrassing, having everyone see you mutter words, you chose those words, you structured them that way, and you want the world to listen to them, lacking composure?
i think it'd be embarrassing.
But instead i prefer vague public interpretation, you tell me what you think i'm thinking, does this arm movement tell you what i am craving, does this ****** shaking show you that i am not content, does me on stage twirling around for a paying audience make this crystal clear?
I'd never tell you what i was thinking, but here's a little summary, take it how you want and judge me for it.

just decided a problem of mine is wanting to create in every form
I want to draw and paint
and take pictures and videos
and create dances and do ******* pottery and embroider into shirts and build a garden and screen-print designs and and and
I don't have time for it all
and I'm afraid life forces people to choose one
or to narrow it down
and I will strive to create excellent things
without cutting any of it out

am i boring or boringly cliche in the things i find exciting

THEY WERE ALL JUST WORDS BEFORE YOU

i'm sorry you can't hear me when i scream "I love you" in my head
i'm sorry i'm the type who seems to always write things down instead

it doesn't matter
i just want to matter to you

Pinching at my extra skin
(Scratch it for me, I'll moan)
What are your intentions now?
How do I figure them out?
Do I want to know

usually unsure how you feel about me
that's okay