palms sweating. heart palpitating. mind infused with nothing but the thought of you. overwhelmed with nervousness, i approached you. we talked and with every word you uttered, my infatuation with you grew. with the way you think, and how your thoughts form in that beautiful mind of yours. with the way you talk. with your eyes, the ones i can never stop looking into. i'm in awe of your beauty, not a word in all languages can begin to describe how beautiful you are and no art can measure up to your glory. a writer can try and put you in words, but he can't sum up all that you're. you're not your flesh nor your bones, you're way more than just your parts. it's everything else that makes you, everything else that leaves me at loss of words. you're fascinating, 
i want to get to know the deepest parts of your being and what keeps you up at night. i want you to make me understand every aspect of who you are, and i promise you that no matter how much you reveal of yourself i'll not love you any less. in fact, my feelings for you will only ever nurture. i have never yet felt such admiration to one being, but what's not to admire? oh god, your smile gives me a kind of high no drug can ever give. and the sound of your laugh is something i'd never want to stop listening to. and your voice is the best form of addiction.
i, at times, do think you're too good for me. i see in you all that i ever strived to be, and i do know you're not perfect and i do know you're flawed but how can one sin so beautifully? i am not in love with you, yet. but the only one i've truly felt this deep emotion to is you. before you, all i knew of love is that it hurt. it leaves you broken, shreds and pieces of you splattered around with no one to stitch them up, with no one trying to piece you back together. but when i saw you, i saw hope. i saw a happy ending and a life worth living and that says a lot, death was always the answer for everything to me. my one longed for wish, why aren't you mine yet?

I catch a glimpse of skin,
Smooth and untouched,
As her shirt rides up
Revealing an expanse of milky surface
And I get an itch to bite it, mark it,
Watch red blossom up and out
Spreading underneath the layer.


I avert my gaze when she speaks,
Tune out the noise,
As my mind wanders back , imagining
A kiss upon the reddened patch
On her hipbone, the contrast
Sharp and painful
Enough to draw out a hiss


Only to transform into a sigh,
At the caress of my tongue,
Shy strokes tracing
The imprint left by my teeth:
A possessive act, marking
My territory.


The shimmer beneath your gaze,
As I return from my fool's paradise
Makes me wonder if you know,
And I wait
For you call me on it,
To reach out, or
Turn away in disgust.


But you don't,
And I am left
Disappointed, suspended,
Still waiting

I can taste your sadness on your lips.

you were named after a poet,
and she was named after a godless.
so when your perfectly crafted
words broke her heart,
the world exploded
into flames and you had
no water to drown them out
(so you drowned in flames,
and she drowned in her tears
as you burned quicker than souls
burn in hell.)

Your eyes
are dark and
dull...

I could've
sworn they
were bright blue
when we
first
met.

Telephone poles
                                     thrown in stitches
across the never-ending blanket
                                                 -- that you stopped following somewhere
after an indie rock concert. The pattern that gavels crusades
                                                               on segmented streets--loss balance
                        bookshelves. Times when tongue-tied families test the lengths
                                                                                                      of rapture and abundance,
            both mouths tired and one eye black--a sock monster. A dog outside barking
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and so on.
                     All this while you watch the tide fall and rise.

I still dream of you sometimes,
the same way I did before,
you choking me
and I turning
the color blue.
I dream it in 3rd person,
that hasn't changed at all either.
The cheap mattress,
dusty floor tiles,
and the belt grasped
tightly in your slightly small
hands, coiling it like a boa,
the fan spinning,
my head spinning,
all things spinning,
you strangling me, wickedly
smiling, laughing, you on me,
then I wake up,
no one is there,
but I'm still hard.

Let's talk about suicide.
Nasty word-
Isn't it?
So gross
But I feel it controlling me
And pushing the blood through my veins

We hate to talk about it
When it happens,
We speak of it only
Over cups of coffee
A muttered secret to a close friend
Words spilling out of our mouths like ****

So.
Gross.

So gross, in fact
That when I was twelve years old
And took the amount of pills I thought necessary to end a life
I couldn't bring myself to tell my mother to take me to the hospital
And instead lay awake
Terrified of what was going to happen
Until I went upstairs
Shoved a toothbrush down my throat
And spewed ***** that tasted of tylenol extra-strength
Of hopes gone and lost
Of secrets never to be told
Of a little girl scared of what was going to come next.

My mom never found out
Because it was

So.
Gross.

And even now
Years later
When I'm walking down a flight of stairs
Steep enough to snap a neck
I have to pause
And say to myself
"No, Diana. Not today.
You still have things to do."
And sometimes, it's really hard
Because I don't have anything left to do
I'm tired and sick and fat and useless
And I wish I wasn't here
I have no friends no family
Nothing left to speak of
Just a numb throbbing in my head

When it's really bad, I ask myself what would happen if I had died that day
The answer scares me.

So.
Gross.

Is that gross?
Yes, it's repulsive, I agree.
But you know what?
I lived. I'm still here, even if I don't want to be
And I still wake up and get dressed
I still cover my scars with jewelry and makeup
I still hold the pills in my hand
And stand at the stairs and say

"Not today, Diana.
You still have things to do."