Mar 2012
I could swear you have a twin.
I see him on every ******* street in Portland
It's funny though, because you hate the rain.
Before we both left for college you cursed the North West, Portland.
Telling me every bullied kid on the playground, math class failure, teens with feverish hearts that can only be cooled with rain water, the depressed they're the ones who move to a place like Portland.
The depressed want to have an excuse for why they feel and what better atmosphere than a city that has some ten odd bridges to jump off.
I hated that you mentioned the word depressed.
Through our seven months and 12 days of our relationship I was what my psychotherapist deemed as depressed.
Cracked rib bones that lodged themselves into my heart, inclosed between broken lockets and love me nots, wrapped in a blue cellophane.
No cocktail of medicine could piece back a broken sculpture
For 2 and half years, my best friend was a razor blade.
Rough around the edges, easy to toss aside.
She was the perfect companion
A stunning rectangular reflection
Of a girl longing for someone to tell her
You are the first sun of the summer, the perfect combination of cigarettes and alcohol, coffee at 4 am on a foggy morning.
Your freckles reminiscent of summer skies
Constellations still yet undiscovered
Someone to say, I will be your best friend.
Even when the world protests against you and the barbed wire between our hearts create a fence that is prison worthy
I will not escape you, the only thing I plan on murdering is your relationship between you and that blade. You cannot call that a friendship, darling.
I wish I could say this person existed and instead of creating his own story within my head
He had weaved himself between my cracked rib bones, stitched his striped sweater strings into my slit wrists, murmured beauty into my ruptured ear drums.
That he carefully molded the mercury consistency of my heart into a plastic masterpiece
Something that wouldn't shatter easily he said
I got to thinking this because I though I saw you again
Somewhere between two narrow city streets
Our veins outstretched towards one another
I followed you for two **** street blocks,
waiting for you to recognize your familiar catastrophe the one with the plastic heart, walking in the direction of something hopeful.
Some place the depressed called home.
I see him on every ******* street in Portland
It's funny though, because you hate the rain.
Before we both left for college you cursed the North West, Portland.
Telling me every bullied kid on the playground, math class failure, teens with feverish hearts that can only be cooled with rain water, the depressed they're the ones who move to a place like Portland.
The depressed want to have an excuse for why they feel and what better atmosphere than a city that has some ten odd bridges to jump off.
I hated that you mentioned the word depressed.
Through our seven months and 12 days of our relationship I was what my psychotherapist deemed as depressed.
Cracked rib bones that lodged themselves into my heart, inclosed between broken lockets and love me nots, wrapped in a blue cellophane.
No cocktail of medicine could piece back a broken sculpture
For 2 and half years, my best friend was a razor blade.
Rough around the edges, easy to toss aside.
She was the perfect companion
A stunning rectangular reflection
Of a girl longing for someone to tell her
You are the first sun of the summer, the perfect combination of cigarettes and alcohol, coffee at 4 am on a foggy morning.
Your freckles reminiscent of summer skies
Constellations still yet undiscovered
Someone to say, I will be your best friend.
Even when the world protests against you and the barbed wire between our hearts create a fence that is prison worthy
I will not escape you, the only thing I plan on murdering is your relationship between you and that blade. You cannot call that a friendship, darling.
I wish I could say this person existed and instead of creating his own story within my head
He had weaved himself between my cracked rib bones, stitched his striped sweater strings into my slit wrists, murmured beauty into my ruptured ear drums.
That he carefully molded the mercury consistency of my heart into a plastic masterpiece
Something that wouldn't shatter easily he said
I got to thinking this because I though I saw you again
Somewhere between two narrow city streets
Our veins outstretched towards one another
I followed you for two **** street blocks,
waiting for you to recognize your familiar catastrophe the one with the plastic heart, walking in the direction of something hopeful.
Some place the depressed called home.
