I am upset,
there is nothing more poetic than that right?
didn't all great poets write about great sadness?

is this is my muse--why am i in pieces?
i am full of questions with no one to answer them.
i've been telling myself time heals all

but its been so ******* long already.
When will time heal me?
because I am running out of time.

You are driving me CRAZY
the way your eyes no longer linger on me
not even for a second
I feel so pathetic
like a ******* child
trying to get the attention of a disinterested cat

Is it me? is it my body?
why do you not want me anymore?
I cannot shout these questions to anyone except you

do you see it now? youre driving me crazy
i cut open my skin and upfold them
disappearing into a smiley face
my bones crumbling under the architecture of your neglect
Please, just tell it as it is. you are driving me ******* crazy.

it HURTS
when his eyes no longer watch my body
he barely lifted his head
only to mumble a few words
and back to whatever he was doing it

it HURTS
when I realize he is familiar with me
it no longer interest him
you can only love a game so much
until you grow bored of it, right?

it HURTS
when his eyes are fixated onto the TV
even when i present my most vulnerable form

it HURTS
when he lies to me
and says I still make him feel things.

I am not blind.

There was nothing significant about her
those words came so naturally to her mother
spoken so fast--like a sharp blade to her skin

Her skin turns a bright pink under the sun
he grunted in a distain that sliced through her fingers
her heart dry as dust, her mouth taste of gun powder

She did not find the blade unnatural to her skin
it felt like childhood, like lovers, like home.
it stings with such familiarity,

she was certain, this was right.

There exist an embarrassment,
when your dog chooses your friend over you

you know its not the animals fault
but it sure feels like it

its interesting how we place faults in things other than our own

Its been years
since I've written something authentic to myself
When i was 15, writing was my hiding place

but now, i find myself
struggling to elevate my work
but the more i try, the worse they are

pretentious! tedious! full of a pious girl's empty words.
I felt pressured to change the world,
to write something remembered by

but today i awoke.
fully, and tired of writing words i barely mean.
in a society driven by authenticity and originality

i am, authentically me--insignificant, but fun to read at least!

my lover had statues
beautiful pale ivory skin
just like his.

he rarely took me seriously
said i was a child
under his great art, i succumb

I will always, faithfully,
be his muse
under his light, i flourish.

intertwined, we awoke burnt out in ash.