i like broken houses a little too much.

         shattered glass rotting floorings
         dust and cobwebs and echoings
         so you can nearly hear the laughter and the cries
         of her old residents
         and how she's kept them in an ivory box
         all those years
         in her basement
         while everything else ******* falls to pieces
         and there's nobody to mend a single thing.

         maybe nothing's the same after hearing
         a hospital hall's echo and how he only
         tries to get away from the screams and kisses
         and the pristine courtains barerly let light in
         and he's a broken mess that hasn't been abandoned
         but the impending damnation breaks him
         and kills others
         death resides but so does life
         and which one is stronger

         and poetry cannot fix the world
         or fix her or fix him or anybody
         and buildings should be buildings and a dust-covered door
         should not be a call for my curiosity and i should not
         mark my fingerprints on it because my sweaty palms
         will make her shriek awake and believe
         someone's finally going to take care of her
         while someone else then walks away
         and leaves her walls stained

         i feel the allure of it somehow because
         there's no more ******* glass to stain break scratch
         within her so i must find some in me some that can contain her
         and contain me i'm falling
         fallingfallingfelldownandwhereaminow
         and hospital halls are nothing but white and sad and a cemetery
         that's being pieced together and it smells of cleaning products
         but the abandoned place has harbored entire lives
         so maybe i'd rather bleed out at an abandoned
         house without glass
         than next to a graveyard in the make

people tell me i should stop thinking so much.

i was darker than you and it made me sad to think
you're so shallow you could never take
my different shades of **black

it hurts, i know
and it's just a girl,
they tell you
and you could scream
because no

        it's not just a girl it's a hole
        burnt in your skin,
        it's a hole pierced through your heart
        and it's the memories

                      that (once) made you smile
                      and now they feel like

                                KNIVES through your
                                stupid ******* SOUL

    but don't cry, no don't you
    ******* let them see she isn't just a girl
    because for six months she turned
    into your whole stupid world and now it
crumbled down and it feels like choking
                                 it feels like being underwater.

                  ( drowned )

    but, still, don't cry even though you want her
back and you never got to feel her arms around you
or her lips or her flawed nose you teased her about because
you can't let them see you weak what are you even doing anymore
just get up and don't ******* cry just ignore it.

                                  (and by this i mean that it's okay if you cry
                                   and i love you even with a broken heart)

i said i like broken houses
                      and what is a broken house
                      have i felt that cold in me
                      in bones and skin and nails
                      that scratch into a wall which
                      won't be even marked by daylight
                      and maybe it wasn't as broken
                      and that's why i relish in the
                      falling apart that sordid emptiness
                      the freefalling, such helpless moment
                      because daylight never made it better
                      nor worse because my eyes are blind
                      to color and sound and touch
                      and there's nothing that can change
                      how i perceive my surroundings
                      so don't give me lillies, look at my
                      walls and you will see the ones i had
                      already withered away in time in death
                      and having flowers depresses me like
                      it's some sick way of seeing death
                      and you killed for giving me something nice
                      so that i can think about you by night
                      but all i get to think about is
                      how that flower could've gotten to grow
                      and be even prettier
                      and how everything that's beautiful
                      one day loses all its petals
                      and we throw it away
                      so i fear that when i'm no longer what you want
                      what you pictured in your silly mind
                      then you'll throw me away like i'd do
                      with a decaying flower.

(...) *she wanted him there like old times, waking up next to him and to his messy bedhead she’d always tease him about. She wanted the discussions because he’d play when she was already asleep and keep her up the rest of the night and she was a workaholic but he was a way better drug than anything she’d ever had and maybe she hadn’t dropped drugs all at once because she couldn’t bear the thought of losing all of him.