you cut open my core and threw my insides at the walls
with all of your indecencies and heedless galaxies
that i'd try to explore, but you kept closed, and gravity;
my feet on the ground as they should be,
as musicians and stupid poets like me
dedicate promises we're positive don't change how you love.

and i figure you to be my supernova.

this abominable disaster you've caused transformed me into
the ink blots splattered and messy and unconstitutional cracks
in the ceiling that we think to fix but never quite have enough spackle.
and i'm **** at sewing, but you force me to stitch myself back
together for days and weeks until i said,
"i want you out of my life"
even though we both knew i was lying and desperate to feel
something because ****** romantics like me
want hermia and lysander,
not demetrius and helena.

and we can't think without the noise of each other and the
constant loose ends that fray,
and time and time again imissyouimissyouimissyou.

and my silence, your silence is the loudest heartbreak i know,
and beethoven never had these problems because he could feel
and he knew that fire and hearts do not mix,
and neither should deceit,
but pretty boy you tore out my heart with burning hands and kept
it in your back pocket with all the others,
and i never said otherwise because at least i was something to you
even if our hearts beat to different drums,
and explosions,
and cracked ribs that you'd like to take because my heart wasn't enough and you needed pieces of me to make yourself feel whole.

and i wish i was a little more selfish because i'm stuck with a
carcass of my old self and the buzzards don't care of the
shell i am now; made up of frozen sno cones, and your eyes.