There comes a point
when the butterflies
cease to be butterflies
and become something
far more sinister

When the fluttering
in your stomach
turns to shredding, ripping, tearing
clawing you to pieces
from the inside out

Leaving nothing  but a pile
of flesh
and bones
and tattered dreams

But still I rise,
for I have grown accustomed
to gathering my entrails
from the floor

You seem to understand
without needing to be told.
You don't ask for what you know
I won't give.

It's become almost routine now,
and I know I shouldn't
use you like this,
but I can see in your eyes
that you register the truth.

You too know what it's like to need
but not be needed,
to love but not be loved.

I suppose I have taught you all too well.

I love your eyes
and the way they catch the sun.
I love how they light up
when you're excited
and I love the feeling
I get when you catch my gaze.

But this is not a love poem.
I love your eyes, but I hate you.

I hate you, because if I didn't,
I would love you.
I can't love you.

It takes all my takes all of my strength
to turn my eyes away from yours,
but I do,
because if I don't break you,
you will break me.

These days when you see me,
you find fascination in the floor,
but if ever again
your eyes meet mine,
I'll tell you I love them,

and I'll tell you I love you.

As she walks the halls
they turn away,
She's not so nice, thats what they say.

But they don't know her like I do,
about her soul
they have no clue.

Though I can say
without a doubt:
she's a ***** inside and out.