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septemb3r Dec 2015
This is me writing your eulogy:

I hope I'm doing this right... I'm sick of hearing "I'm sorry for your loss." Maybe a "Congrats," would fit this occasion. You're safer, and happier. So am I(?) Please know that it's okay that you buried me behind doors and pill bottles. You were (are) sweet and soft and home to me. Too many times I buried myself in your skin. You'll forever be my favorite home I lived in. I'm still hushed up by your unrequited apologies and agonized cried. You're still singing in my head forever. I kind of feel like I've gone through the worst heartbreak ever because you're still humming on my fingertips and I'm pretending I don't hear a thing.
septemb3r May 2015
White shirts,
Chicken nuggets,
Kisses your brother,
Writes to your mother,
Reeks of stale cologne,
Always misplaces his keys.

Laughs like rain,
Fixes his tie,
Melts into your skin,
Drown in his eyes,
Golden as the sun,
Bitter as the night.

Drinks too much,
Watches you cry,
Ties knots in your hair,
Screams like dad,
Mismatches his socks,
Kisses you goodnight.

***** his teeth,
Rolls his eyes,
Corrects my typos,
Sleeps inconsistently,
Drives in reverse,
Cracks eggs with one hand.

Writes you poems,
Plays you guitar,
Traces your spine,
Kisses relentlessly,
Unzips your soul,
Keeps himself in a jar.
septemb3r Oct 2014
I used to be scared of what hid under my bedsheets,
hid in the shadows of my closet.
I've come to find that I am what is hiding under the sheets.
(hiding from what?)
I am the shadows in my closet.

Yes, I write about sad because I am sad.
I AM SO ******* SAD.
STOP telling me HOW TO FEEL,
I'm caught behind my silence because I don't know how to tell you
everyone is screaming at me
and they just won't stop
and I can't seem to differentiate between your crying and my own.
All I can see is broken glass.
I hit the wall so many ******* times
holding a bottle,
holding a ****,
holding a heart.
There's shattered glass everywhere.
No wonder my feet are bleeding.

"Your voice is so quiet."
"Speak up, please."
I'm screaming your name and you won't turn the **** around.
Was it something I said?
Or didn't say.

Do we want to hid in closets
or under piles of blankets
because that's the only place I feel warmth anymore.
That's the only place I feel *safe
septemb3r Jun 2014
Sometimes I sit in the bathtub in my basement and play with a calibre. It's always loaded. I like to un-**** and **** it because I like the sound it makes.

I also like to put it between my teeth because when the metal hits my teeth, it rings.

Feeling so close to the hand of death is sort of comforting to me. It's irrelevant to the fact that I'd much rather you be the one stuffing that gun in my mouth, than have myself do it.

I guess I give you too many privileges.
septemb3r Jun 2014
Sometimes I really like to hear you cry.

I like how raw and deep your voice sounds when you talk in your sleep.
I like the way you lick the blood off the floor after you stabbed that baby.
I like how you paint roses black and dip them in blood.

Sometimes you make me feel like less of a little girl and more like a psychopath. I really like that.
septemb3r Jun 2014
I guess I don't love perfect hair,
And I guess I don't love painted nails.

I love messy buns,
And chipped nail polish.
I love how her hips sway when she walks,
Or how she tries her hardest to make me fall in love with her body
When I'm too busy trying to put to words how her eyes have a summer breeze inside of them,
And how the sun is in her smile,
Or the music in her voice.

"She's like a Lana Del Rey Song:
Beautiful, deep, and once it gets stuck in your head - you can't get it out."

I also think I could never captivate her essence with merely words.
I've spent these past few days alone,
Trying to capture the universe in a jar.
I want her to see how I see her:
So much mystery, and beauty in such a small containment.

And since I've been alone,
I've gotten three hickeys from a boy I didn't know,
I got in motorcycle accident,
and I stole two-hundred fifty dollars from her parents wallet when I went downstairs after she fell asleep.

"If she's the deep end of the pool, I'm standing in 3 feet of chlorine. If she's drowning, I'm not doing anything to stop her."
septemb3r Apr 2014
Not only is it 3 a.m,
It is also the time when I remember you left me.
3 a.m is also the time when the alcohol loses it's taste,
And your words begin to occupy my mind.
The sweet 'I love you's' and the 'I don't think this is working anymore.'
3 a.m is when I think about how you used to close your eyes, and lay your body next to mine.
It is also the time when I think about how happy and bright your eyes are;
How sharp and white your teeth are.
3 a.m is when I need you the most,
Because my heart is heavy with the burden of wanting what I cannot have.
Which is you.
It always will be you.
3 a.m is dried up tears, crumpled papers, ***** on my breath, smoke filled rooms, and finally beginning to feel your absence.
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