After us.
He became scorn.
He never looked more beautiful.
I thought him lucky, to have that.

I only felt something lukewarm.
My indifference made me plain.

I wanted that passion instead of this boredom.
He got all the longing, the ache, the poets disease.

I shared my thoughts, my truth with him.
He only flamed brighter as a result ….. so ******* gorgeous.

I am envy.
Much better than apathy.

Sometimes when you love someone, really love someone you're blinded by their bad intentions, the malice that exists in them.  The jealousy that reeks their eyes and the lies that live in their heart.  Love is evil because love can be blind in the eyes of a beholder. Love can also be gentle and sweet when when eyes are honest and kind.

My fingers running through your hair, your ears placed exactly on my chest so you could hear my heartbeat. your fingers are tapping my shoulder in sync with my heartbeat, and you telling me to "slow down" thinking it was somehow possible for me defy the laws of nature…loving you. loving you was real, almost natural. Brought up believing that love only existed with Jasmine and Aladdin, But this time, it was me and you. The way your eyes would warm me up with the look filled with love, almost telling me that it will last; now just a distant memory filled with self pity and hate for every time I paused before I said "I love you too". Every lost opportunity to numb my pain with your lips and warm touch. The last time I could wake up in the middle of the night to look at your peaceful face, with a faint smile on your face as if knowing that this is where we belong, together forever in the safe presence of the dark figures now haunting my memory.

The memories haunt my every thought.
The sound of Daddy’s footsteps creaking every night.
The sound of the doorknob turning slowly.
The sound of Daddy’s voice.
And I grew jealous that Daddy rather,
spend time with her than with me.
But something told me that
I dare not say anything.

I was 6 and you were 7.
You were my sister, my very best friend.
But with the noises and cries I heard late at night,
you were slipping away from me.
But I dare not say anything.

I grew to hate you as Daddy
loved you more than me.
He held your hand and kissed your head
but he never touched me.
But I dare not say anything.

As years went on I grew terrified
that Daddy would come to me.
Because I knew something was bad.
And I didn’t wish he would touch me anymore.
But I dare not say anything.

You were 11 and I was 10.
And one day it stopped.
I never heard Daddy in your room again.
I never heard anything ever again.
No goodbye’s or hello’s or any words at all.
Like silence could hold the secret that
they both knew was true.
But I dare not say anything.

You grew too thin, too pale, too weak.
You disappeared for days at a time  
with too many boys much too old.
You did too many drugs that no one knew.
But at night I could still hear you crying
alone in the same room.
But I dare not say anything.

But now I realize
why you did
what you did.  
I just didn’t understand.
but now I do.
And I am so so sorry.

                                                               ­                   But I dare not say anything.
  
(j.j)

You can’t always **** me goodbye.
A way with your words and a way with your hands.
It was always easy to get you into bed,
  I knew I should’ve took that for a sign.
We’ve got no strings, no guarantees
  only our zipped lips that take the change we put in our pockets.
We could talk forever but I’ll always have to look up
and you will always have to look down.
Always and forever you are my ringing circle,
my fatal sun.

I used to be a
rocking chair
in the home of a lovely
elderly two.
In the summers I sat in the shade
on the porch
that was my world.

But I got tired of going
back and forth
with the same old things

I used to be
a pair of rubber gloves
belonging to the maid
of a grand old palace.
I held the sponges
that cleaned the biggest of ballrooms
and the feather duster
that danced along
the most delicate riches.

But I didn't like
being used
to do someone’s
***** work.

I've been a wish from a genie
(I was taken for granted)
I've been the pencil of an artist
(That job was too sketchy)

I was a sapphire gem in a mineral museum
(But I started feeling really blue)
I was a sunken stone in a rolling river
(But I just couldn't go with the flow)

Though, I don’t regret
a single thing I've been.
Because the best part of imagination
is the only thing about it
that I don’t need to make up:

my mind.