I can't tell if I'm shivering out of coldness or fear
or fear of being too cold.
Our bracelets broke on the same day.
The bittersweet irony is like swallowing a rose full of thorns.
My favorite shoes are getting holes in the toes-
you love something so much you **** it.

The first time she told me I was perfect,
I told her it was the *** talking.
but by the fifth time, the tables had turned,
except
I wasn't under the post ******* influence,
I was, in my own mind, completely sane.

Every single "you two are so cute"
is-
no, was-
a candy coated suicide pill-
sweet with a bitter aftertaste.

Fire rains on my skin
red ants trail in lines where her finger tips grazed my arms.
My eyes are burning and whether its from lack of sleep or I just got some reality caught in my iris,
I'm not quite sure.

Hurt, anger, uncertainty, betrayal-
at the hands of the one person I lent my knife to-
my own self.
The sheer stupidity of allowing the free thinking, independent rifle of my pen to be settled for even a minute.

So maybe I did nothing wrong,
and maybe soulmates just isn't in the dictionary-
but neglect sure is.

And unwashed hair smells a whole lot like yesterday's feelings and burnt coffee,
and maybe if I wash out today's feelings tomorrow, I'll be left with just keratin.
Or maybe perspective, masked in an intoxicating rose scent.