here i go, another line,  
half in love, half in decline.  

art is love, and love is cruel,  
it dresses kings, it breaks the fool.  

seventeen and feeling torn,  
too much love for being born.  
ghosts have touched me, not the real,  
i know the want, but not the feel.  

i watch him laugh across the room,  
i breathe him in, i taste the gloom.  
some days he talks, most days he won’t,  
some days i care, some days i don't.  

he laughs with girls, he taps their hands,  
he pulls them close, he understands.  
no second thoughts, no shift, no scare,  
but when it’s me, he won't go there.  

like i'm too sharp, too much, too real,  
too wrong to touch, too big to feel.  
like one brush of my haunted skin  
could **** the soft, sweet life from him.  

maybe he’s right.  
maybe i bite.