My cheap gold rings turn my fingers green,
I fry my hair to straw.
My favorite pants have holes in them,
I wear a push-up bra.
My eyebrows and nails are store-bought as can be,
I had braces for two years to fix my teeth.
You can call me fake,
I don't really care.
Because the words that I write and the thoughts that I think,
I didn't pull out of thin air.

Long and passionate,
or a second of pure bliss.
Who knew one syllable
could mean all of this.

I'm envious of the sun, fore it gets to kiss your face through window glass, first thing in the morning.
And I'm also just as greedy for the moon's ability to kiss you goodnight.
But it's the hours in between, that hold your laughs and memories, that I'm jealous of the most.

On the first day of kindergarten, he wore a yellow coat, the boys in blue jackets took him for a joke.
He didn't realize it then, but soon he would know, that when you appear to be different, people like to throw stones.
He painted pictures in the art room when he got to middle school, while the boys who ran track and played football spread rumors, vicious and cruel.
It was then from underneath his long colored hair, that the boys eyes were opened and he saw society crystal clear.
His first kiss was at senior prom, but no one cut him any slack. And the other boy was jumped in the parking lot for kissing him back.
On that very night he cried all the way home, convinced that his whole life he'd always be alone.
And as weeks turned to months, he never broke loose, there were too many antagonists, so he strung up the noose.
It was his parents who found him, lifeless and cold, they had his brother deliver the eulogy, and his belongings were sold.
In the end, its our differences that define us, they separate one from another, and life is far too short for us to throw stones at each other.

I didn't even knock, I knew he'd never let me in. His cheeks were stained with tears, and his breath radiated gin.
My eyes took in his presence, then I scanned the room some more. And that's when I saw it, his heart broken on the floor.
Too ****** to pick up the pieces, he was past the point of caring. He'd done this to himself, being a witness was overbearing.
I needed to help him, with the bad hand he'd been unjustly dealt. Because this mess of a boy, made me feel love I've never felt.
I sewed up his ruined heart, with locks from my own head. Rather than return it, I kept the once maimed ***** instead.
I looked up and met his gaze, he was noticeably confused. So as a hint I grabbed the knife, to show him what I planned to do.
I couldn't bear to see him this way, so grief stricken and alone. That's why I cut open my chest, and replaced his heart with my own.

Dream me up a fabrication and let the tale leave your lips.
Weave for me a blanket of half truths and let it swaddle my skin.
Give to me a dozen dead roses, so disappointment never nears.
And with the false hope your essence brings, I'll surely dry my tears.
Yet in return I give to you my undying devotion.
And accompanied by the bourbon I'll choke down your love potion.

Sometimes it feels good to talk about you. To say your name out loud. Just to prove that my tongue can still form the syllables. Just to show that it's okay. That you're not a secret. Not a curse forbidden to pass across my lips and into the open air. It feels good to talk about the memories that we shared. The late nights, the good times, the places we went. The small fights with silent treatment, kiss me let's make up, remedies. The inside jokes that still tickle my brain and make me hear your laugh. The laugh that accompanied the voice that belonged to the person I felt so safe with. So comfortable around. So in love with. Yes I said it. In love. Because when it's love, you really are IN it. It surrounds you. Takes up your whole heart. It takes your breath away. Makes you appreciate the little things. It makes you realize how important a crumpled up piece of paper with words written on it just for you really is. How special one kiss can really be. And how perfect one hand in your own can feel. So sometimes it feels good to remember the whispers you'd tell me in the dark when it was just us, the moon and the stars. And sometimes it feels good to think about the fact that you truly cared for me and not just me, but us. What I wouldn't give for just one more memory. For just another chance to hear your heart beat inside your chest. For you to offer me your hand as I sit in the passengers seat, going anywhere with you. Just anywhere your heart desires. But that's the thing. Your heart. It's desire isn't me. No matter how badly I want it to be. No matter how many times I say I'm sorry. Scream it up to heaven. Or to the stars. Or to anyone around to listen. No matter how many tears I shed. Weep. Sob. Cry. It's useless. Hopeless. The memories they're good. They're great. They're what I treasure most now that you're gone. And that's why I say sometimes. Because sometimes it feels good to know that we once had the world in our hands. That at one point we almost caught our dreams. That at a place in time WE actually had the same dream. That there even was a "we". But the other times. The times where it doesn't feel good. Where just the thought of you, of us, tears me apart. That's what makes every single day a challenge. Because sometimes I just want to forget the best part of my life. The best memories and jokes and feelings. Leave them all behind. There are times where I want nothing more than for all of that to be gone. And that's what's so sad. That sometimes I want the best part of my life, the best part of me, to disappear...