I'm horribly in love with the sound of your voice,
and I'm sick and twisted from the syllables your throat pours.

I want you to take my picture without any light,
because I'm aching to get rid of your dictionary.

The metal in my mouth is gone but I still feel the same,
I guess the porcelain clashes with the wrinkles on your face.

My interests aren't what they used to be,
because of the way you make me feel,
and if I really loved you,
then nothing I said would be real.

I'll call you for directions
more times than a normal person should
because I never think to write them down,
and I try too hard to burn things into my brain.

I've been asking questions all my life
and now I'm finally answering why.
Except they're not your questions,
and I like how you know
when I don't want you to stop.

Now I don't think it's beautiful,
because I remember how it felt.

Nostalgia has this sickening grip
that keeps me alive with no sleep,
and I know I'm obsessed with dreams,
but I have perfectly good reasons to be.

I hate it when you love me,
but that's all I want when you're away:

it's meaningless lust for what I can't keep.

I've always been able to hear you through the walls,
but I never realized that you could hear me too.

That's a lie, I knew you could,
I just never thought you listened.

I've been killing myself for you,
staying up late to hear your hushed voice,
hiding in closets, and sitting in the streets,
doing whatever I can,
for the one I'll never meet.

I want the respect that I don't give,
and I want you to notice how blue my eyes are,
and how red my lips are.
I can offer you my hands,
they're exactly as soft as you want them to be.
You can look down my throat,
or bite my finger nails,
anything you want.

I want you to stop talking to me forever,
so that I can think about you all the time,
and I want you to watch me
as if you knew what I meant when I said goodbye.

It always gets to the point where my face is hot
and I can feel it seep into my ears,
and my heart is beating so fast that I'm afraid it'll get tired and stop,
then I'll just be dead.

God's not a dancer,
he doesn't have any feet, or a body,
not to mention a spine.
How could you dance without a spine?

I want you to ask me questions that I can't answer,
and prove to me how much better you are,
or maybe if you stood there and smiled at me long enough,
I'd realize how  tired you really are.

If I stop talking, that means I'm better,
and if I keep talking, that means I'm worse.
I hope you don't understand any of this,
because that would make me a liar,
and I'm sick of being a light that you stare at,
and I'm sick of that chair that you sit in.
but mostly,
I hate the smell of the theater,
and I always wonder why the floors are so sticky,
not that I care, I just have an overactive imagination.

You make me feel different than anyone has ever made me feel before.
I think different too.
It's not good, or bad,
it's just the way it is.
Sometimes we have to accept things that we don't want to,
but that's life,
and if you want to feel anything then you need to listen.
Desires can make people sick with confusion,
so sick that they can't sleep,
or taste the food in their mouth,
or hear their favorite song,
or feel the wind on a hot day.

Obsession is dry,
and tasteless,
and it hurts like nothing you could ever believe.
So stop treating me like a child who asks too many questions
and treat me like the beautiful person you claim I am.

I can't help but lust for your skin,
or think about how amazing it would be to carry on a conversation with our hands,
or help but want to lick your teeth
and feel your bones.

I guess the bugs would scare me,
and the smell would make me gag,
but your rotting face would still be beautiful to me.
Sometime's I dream about you all alone,
in the dark, with no one to freeze with you.

It's okay that I didn't get to scratch my nose,
I probably would've ended up tearing through the skin anyway.
You know I've never liked blood.
Too many dead animals on the road,
too many dead things flooding my life.
It makes me wish I were dead.

Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to change your mind?
Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to die?
Isn't it?

Orgasming in the passenger seat,
while she listens to something she doesn't understand,
sitting across from someone she'll never love,
all the while completely clothed and turned off.

She's one of those girls,
who touches herself when you're on the the phone,
or just watching another episode of a mediocre television show.


Everyone's asleep while she sings the saddest songs
in the most **** of ways.
Except he's not asleep,
when they're ******* for days.

I  almost went to a movie with a man twice my age,
but then I told him I'm sort of involved with someone.
I guess you can say it's complicated.

I burnt my hand on a light bulb the other day,
I cried and cried, but I didn't do anything to try and help the pain,
I relished it, I marveled in it, as if it was the sugar in my tea.
It felt better than anything I've felt these past few months,
because it was better than nothing.
I know that's disgusting, and I know if you were there to see it you'd be sick, but you aren't here, if you were then it wouldn't be like this.

I've been watching the news, trying not to care,
and spilling secrets, not caring enough to clean them up.

I want you to tell me what your pain feels like,
and your anger,
and your sadness.
I need you to make me feel like I'm not alone.