it feels like the feather of a bird;
so light and airy like
when you're walking down the street
and someone bumps into you
you praise every higher power out there that
you didn't collapse because
you're just so small and everyone
else tells you that you're so pretty
but you don't feel pretty you just want
to go back to the old you but
that's impossible because the feeling of swallowing
something scorches your throat as if there's acid
in it and the feeling of substance in your stomach
scars more than any stretch mark ever could
and big sweaters become your best friends because they
cam hide your weight and when you're tired of everything
you just swing by park and engulf yourself with a big
sweater even though you wish it could be human touch but
you haven't let anyone touch you in 3 months because then
they'd see how hollow you are and somewhere in
the back of your mind you know this is a problem but you
don't want to admit you have another problem,
so instead you let big sweaters swallow you whole;
and you keeping cursing every time that guy on the
street comes around because if he bumps into you with
that basketball you might shatter
and you've already done so much,
and everyone thinks you look so pretty
that's all you ever wanted to be, pretty

*do you feel pretty now?

I want to
save the world,
but I cannot even
save myself;
so please
do not
ask me
to save you,
too

i've been 4 months clean or whatever they're definition
of clean is but i still crave you arms around my waist
and your whisper in my ear because what they never tell you
is that once your clean you also become cold
because you never want to risk falling in love and taking
the chance of becoming addicted;
it's so easy to become addicted
and so now i live in a world of black and white
with only bent polaroids and broken memories
to prove you ever existed
and maybe it shouldn't hurt this badly, maybe the consequence
of falling in love with you shouldn't pain me so but it does because
you had taken the same ink that you write poems with and
injected it into my veins and i've never been the same
since last july when you said that you loved me
and actually meant it,
i wonder; when did you stop meaning it?
was it the day you told me that you could never love
anyone or was it the day i told you that i didn't care

when people talk about falling in love, they always
make emphasis on the feeling, so i will say this:
falling in love with you felt like
injecting whiskey into your flesh and you like the
rush but you also feel the burn and you know
this will leave scars but you don't care because
*no one ever thinks about rehab

"I'll let you in on a secret.
Will you promise to keep it?"

He is...

The allegro of every moment's decresendo.
The sense of deja vù, in a series de novo.
The lyrics of my song,
The right to my wrong.
The notes in my music,
The wisdom in what i believe.
The reminders on my board,
The message of these words.
The image in a scenery,
The metaphors of my poetry.
The giggle in my laugh,
The memories of my photographs.
The smile in my tears,
The courage to face my fears.
The North star in my sky.
The only truth in all the world lies.
The flame of my fire.
Every second of my hours,
My very reason for living.
The secret i held inside my heart.
Secured away.
Secluded.
His presence--
Justify my existence.


*(Don't tell him, what he doesn't know or he might...)

The scary, bold whisper of a truth is that pinning blame is careless.

You feel the slow *****; a smart of pain.

A sweet sting.

Just enough to draw blood to the surface, but not enough for a bandage.