i have a bad habit of stringing along boys
because i love knowing they crave
the taste of my skin on their
t-t-tongues.

i live for the feeling of
tightening the red rope around their necks
suffocating them with lust.

kiss and tell,
i'll wipe that grin off your
silly little face, pretty boy.
i'll replace it with a red lipstick stain
that you'll try to wipe off
before your mama spots you.

she thinks i'm no good for you;
maybe so, but you still beg for
my poison rushing through your
veins.
maybe mama's right though,
my only intentions are to bruise you,
not to kiss it better.

anyways, silly pretty boy:
i can barely muster up enough
love in these bones for myself,
what makes you think i got some to share
with you?

i hate being Needy.
sometimes I feel like my Bones themselves
ache for Attention,
that's why they Curve and Twist
in ways they shouldn't.

my bones are hoping your
butterfly kisses will
lift my spirits
and unBend the cartilage in my rib cage,
hoping that you'll
straighten my back by running your
fingers Up and Down enough times.
they crave and creak
until they've gotten their fix,
just like the boy i first loved needed.

i was your manic pixie dream girl. i was just a hollow shell that you found beautiful and mysterious. in the letters you wrote to me, you compared me to zooey deschanel and the way all her characters seem to hide themselves under layers, waiting to be peeled back and understood by some unsuspecting male who needed a woman to make the story of their lives progress. but even after a year and a half, you failed to view me as a person and not a trope devised by authors and screenwriters with ***** that shriveled into their bodies. i thought i meant more to you, and you still probably believe i was just a lucky accident in your life. i've moved on to find boys that can almost see through me, even though i'm like war and peace and not the tissue paper you made me out to be. they can see i have a heart and guts and am more than a smattering of your favorite shade of blue on a canvas. you thought of me as a brush stroke, but baby, i'm the whole ******* painting.

sometimes i wish it was as easy to leave my worries as it is to hop on a plane. because then i could look at them from thousands of feet above and marvel how they've become tiny indistinguishable ants.

maybe i'm like a star or
those famous artists that i learned about last year;
i'll explode into a fiery oblivion
and burn those around me,
maybe setting off a celestial chain reaction.
no one will realize i'm gone
because
the light i'll leave will shine for
years to come
and will be seen by eyes
that are a thousand light years away.

i want to rewind time
because i've been a broken record
since you've left.
i've been caught on
thinking about you and me
and the things we never were.
i'm hoping that
i could change that
last hug to a last kiss,
with you pushing me up against your car,
fingers running through your hair.
i want to feel your lips against mine,
even though i know they kissed hers the day before.
what did she whisper into your mouth,
i love you?
i'll miss you?
you mean everything to me?
because if she didn't,
i surely would have,
only if you just gave me the chance.

i can feel the vibrations of every
single
particle in my fingernails and hair-strands.
i can feel each piece of me slowly
flying away.
i'm becoming just
carbon atoms.
entropy.
i'm melting into only molecules.
my skin is slipping past itself
no solid state of matter exists.
no solid state of mind.