As a child, I liked to imagine animals as characteristics. Foxes were intelligence, lions were courage, dogs were loyalty, and beauty? Beauty was always a butterfly. I imagined her floating softly between humans, hesitating ever so slightly at each ones shoulder, making sure to only distribute the smallest amount of herself to each of them. After all, too much beauty is surely a dangerous thing. But from the first moment I saw you, I knew that beauty had rested her dainty legs on your shoulder for just a second, and she knew she'd never leave again. Beauty belonged to you like she had never belonged to anyone else. And they say that all is fair in love and war; but eyes like your's, my dear, were never in the cards.

As it turns out, I’m easier to love from afar. Every time I open my mouth, I just bleed.

Thinking about you and coffee, and the way those two completely separate things are somehow so similar. I'm always needing them first thing in the morning, or the last thing at night. And I think I could drink for days without ever quenching my thirst, so I do. But suddenly I am shaking like a leaf in a storm. I shake, and I smile, and I move across the floor like I know where I'm headed. And then my cup is empty, and I've become like some sort of addict that has finally run dry. I promise myself I'll never drink coffee again.
I fill my mug to the brim the next morning.

The air drifts across my skin
in just the right way,
as if it belongs there,
as if it waits for me
to unfold my wings
and follow.

Your lies drip like honey from your lips and fall like acid on my skin. So I spend hours on end tossing your words around in my mouth, biting at their edges, ******* out meanings that weren't even there to begin with. And instead of food, I fill my empty stomach with memories of you:
Those eyes.
Those lips.
That voice.
Those fists.
I'm living like you are the only thing I need to survive, like empty promises could somehow fill these holes that you've left. Like I could eat my own heart out and still be home in time to cook your dinner.

I've spent the past 5 years learning new ways to call your name. Like maybe if I hit the right note, you'll finally hear the desperate in my voice. Like maybe if I keep remembering you, you'll stop forgetting me.

Fingers are grazing
gently across your skin.
Maybe they are yours
or maybe they are his
or maybe they aren't there at all.
Maybe they've moved on
to greener pastures
and bigger *******.

You'd learn how to love me and I'd learn how to let go of the things that didn't.

Finger down your throat, thinking you might pull up all those words you've swallowed. But the words have wrapped themselves so tightly around your soul, all that comes up is pride. Pride that you swallowed when the words weren't enough.

She was not fragile like a flower;
She was fragile like a bomb.

I’m not blaming you. I’m not mad and I don’t need to fight about it. You didn’t love me- and that isn’t your fault. You didn’t love me- and I’ll still be okay.

Don’t let him use love as an excuse.
If he can’t love you without your knees on the ground and his hands on your neck,
then he doesn’t get to love you at all.

And I don’t say it, but I can’t help but to think that she might never find what she’s looking for. She’s always laughing just a little too loud, or answering just a little too quickly, or holding onto things that she should’ve let go of years ago….She is so thirsty for love that she drowns in it every time.

So we close our eyes
and tell ourselves
that help will come
tomorrow.
But tomorrow's hope
quickly turns to despair
and then despair fades into nighttime
and then tomorrow is over
and help never came.
So we close our eyes
and tell ourselves
that help will come
tomorrow.

I had never believed in evil until I watched it sprout from your throat like some kind of invasive vine. And even though it might be naive to say, I still believe that there are flowers living somewhere inside you, fighting their way through the cracks in the pavement.