Oh, but you have broken my heart.

It's now in two halves,

And one belongs to you

Let me tell you about the first boy I fell for. I mean, really fell for.

He was different. Not in a sense that he was strange or anything like that, but in a way that he was different from most people. He had a similar thought process to me and we actually understood each other. Whenever he would start talking about something that interested him, his eyes would light up and he would put his hand on my thigh, squeezing it whenever his story got more intense. He never broke eye contact with me when it was my turn to speak. He actually listened to what I had to say and no one has ever done that for me before.

I fell for his smile the first time I saw it. I don't know why I was so drawn to it, but I was. It was contagious.

I fell for his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black and extremely easy to get lost in. Everytime he would smile, his eyes would almost completely shut because of how big he was smiling. It made my heart melt.

I fell for how his hand fit so well in mine. Everywhere we went, our fingers were interlocked so tight that nothing could break through us. In fact, whenever someone would get too close to me, his hand would tighten around mine and he'd pull me closer to him. He made me feel safe.

I fell for the way he would look at me. We would be lying next to each other and I could feel his eyes on me. I'd look at him, smile, and cover his eyes with my hand telling him not to stare at me. He would reply with, "Don't tell me what to do. I'll stare at you all I want!" All I would do was laugh and kiss him quick on the cheek.

I fell for the way he touched me. He was always touching me one way or another. He would usually run his fingertips down my side to my hip and up my back. If I got lucky enough, I would feel him brush my hair back and gently kiss my neck. I couldn't help but smile and have the urge to kiss him over and over again.

I fell for the way he slept. Even then he had to be touching me, otherwise he would wake up and drag me closer to him. He looked so peaceful. I couldn't help but kiss his cheek and run my fingers through his hair.

I fell for the way he kissed me. It was natural. His lips seemed to melt with mine and not once did he try shoving his tongue down my throat. His kisses were addictive and I could not get enough of them.

He seemed perfect. Sadly, I didn't find out how big of a ******* he was until it was too late.



                                B.S.

Who would have thought
two years made a difference?
Two years is not that long
in the grand scheme of things.
Two years ago, I didn't know
so much that I do today.
Two years ago, I wouldn't have
made some of the choices I did.
Two years ago, I could smile,
a genuine smile, with real emotion.

If I could go back to two years ago,
I would change what I did,
Warn myself that not everyone is good.
I used to believe that everyone was good
even if they were only good in some tiny way.
I know better now some people will never care
how much pain they cause.
Two years ago, I wish I'd known.

she had been
stabbing herself
with her own knife
until he took it from her

and right as she believed
that he was trying to help
he handed her a larger one
and said,
"here, try this one"

I don't want there to be a day where I have to read a speech at my best friend's funeral because she commited suicide.

I don't want to have to say how cruel and horrid the world is to destroy such an amazing and innocent person.

I don't want to watch her happiness wipe away from her face as sadness and darkness plagues her heart.

I don't wanna get that call in the middle of the night telling me my friend is gone.

I don't want to dream of her smiling, to wake up to a dying soul.
But a dream is only a dream..

I don't want to be watched by a ghost of a friend who didn't want to live.

But, it's happening. People will keep being cruel to the most loving people, until they no longer want to be in this hell.

I don't want to watch a friend die.

Please don't make me.

So you want to know
what death looks like...
It looks like her,
Make-up done perfectly
Red lips that could ****
Nails black as dusk
Heels sharp as knives.

Death.
Looks like her eyes
Captivating.
Stunning. *Yet lifeless.

I’m holding my father’s baby teeth in my hands. They’re pressing into my palms the way I wish your nails could. My mother through walls thin as her body is using the bathroom again. My mother has eyes like the antlers of a buck. When it snows my mother is outside with her fingers encircling a purple plant and the plant is now dead. When it snows my mother’s mouth can be seen disappearing into flesh, her face disappearing because it has no flesh. She is standing on the porch again watching you drive. “I Need My Girl” is a loud song and it is playing softly from your speakers.

The last time I held your hand in a car we drove for two hours like Magellan in circles around the outskirts of the town. The river coursing like the chest of a swan just about to take flight. The river coarse as childhood hair, hair without showering. I hadn’t showered in two days. This town would be better with large fields, more cows, some highway and cliffs. As it was: it felt too much like we were driving somewhere; it always does when you are in a small town. We drank from wine bottles shaped like our father’s heads and sat on straw chairs underneath strung-up white lights. The lights were there all year hanging from a tree that in that muddy heat should have been palm.

What it was: this summer your body reminded me of somebody else’s body all lanky, the one difference was that you were there and he wasn’t and now it is winter and neither of you are here and my body is in bed moored by hives the size of your large pale feet.

Father mosquito
drank my blood
and promised me
that there was a lot
to live for:
***, money,
women, love,
food, water.

But *** is only worth
the ten seconds
after I ***:
the ten seconds
where my body breaks
but not my heart.

And money is an idea
that belongs to someone else.
So, the money I have
never really is mine.
The things I need,
I'll never have.
The things I have,
I'll never need.

I do love the softness of women,
Father Mosquito.
You have understood me
once.

It's just underneath
my skin.

But you say love
and no love
is as important
as self-love.
No lips stitched into mine
is worth the feeling
unless I understand my worth,
and you're currently
*******
it
dry.

What happens when food
loses its taste?
And water is no longer cold?
What happens when
my body fails me?
Drink my blood
since it is yours, too,
father.

It's just underneath
my skin.