you're a love tease
resurfacing when I have
finally forgotten
how you sound,
how you feel-
flashing your smile and
reminding me that I
did not give it to you,
as if I hadn't died trying.
how real can your love be,
could it have been,
if you use the same words-
pair royalty and faith-
with a completely new face?

you will never understand
my ultra-sensitivity,
the pain that's overtaken me.
so deep that I'm lying
where the light has never touched.

I buried you beneath
an oceans worth of sand
too hot to touch, just in case
I thought for a second
that I should try to again.

I hate you so much
but love you even more,
so much so that I can forget
over and over
every knife
that was plunged
through my body
every lie
that made me bleed inside.

perhaps my love is unconditional.

I have always been drawn to destruction;
air too thin to breathe-
I carry a pain eyes can't receive.

life and evil are only a letter apart,
and I've come to believe
this was no mistake;

the devil wears sweatpants and a rosary.

he weaves his fingers
through yours tightly
every time he holds you down-

and he shines-
stolen halos line red wrists,
they bang against the drywall-
its four in the morning
and he's come into the room again-
he forever invites himself in

maybe this time God will hear the ringing,
clinging together,
the halos,
the angels
will flee to ****** back
their innocence.
brilliance.

and the motion will cease.
the clouds, close.

claiming "possession"
is out of the question
for he did not seize my soul-
I extracted it, split my skull
all for a taste of the afterlife.

he loves mirrors and other pathways
of reflection;
the evil only seem to love themselves.

I am used to blinding confusion
and bittersweet illusions,
I crave the burn that follows pain.

he likes to leave a mark
beyond scarring the skin,
but I promise,
the worst is within-

life and death are only a day apart
and I've come to believe
I am stuck in between,
and the devil continues,
blissful and free.

With every dawn that rises
I find myself
suspended in normality,
scrambling to scavenge some sort
of beauty in the bleakness.

My own past, passes me by.
those who were once called lovers
all love another,
(someone who had always been
desperate to reach the foreground)

So many times have I wished
that I could split myself-
send each piece sailing into the sky
and see which road leads me to destiny.

But- I am whole.
with this, I must decide upon a single path-
accept normalitys cold, clammy palms
gripping my thighs, holding my waist.

The only reason we feel
a way towards something
is because we've been trained to.
it is valid for flowers to be putrid,
and hell to be heavenly,
if we so wish it to be.
the most twisted of things in your mind,
lie in my own morning routine.

You've never met a wanderer like me.

Countless pathways and I remain
barefoot and bleeding along the same trail,
knowing **** well it will **** me;
glass hidden between pebbles,
ghosts kissing my heels,
my own self, blind to the foreground.

good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.

I used to write about smoking cigarettes
and stealing bottles from shopping centers-
about love that never deserved to exist,
and people who would now not recognize
the shape of my own being.

it's conflicting to constantly know
who you are today cannot compare to tomorrow;
and the thoughts that cause feelings of brilliance
are only echoes of past stupidity.

I'm supposed to hate myself for what I've done.

My bones should snap under the weight
of my own guilt, but there is none.

Perhaps I am incapable of feeling sorry,
even for myself, since no one else ever did.

Maybe I can't control my own demons,
because I never kept them in chains,
and it's only a matter of time
before karma catches me.

You will never understand what it took
to love You again,
and I will never comprehend why
It all left it in the first place.

We hold a thousand memories,
but the hundred I have molded on my own
burn and singe-
the sounds of your unanswered calls-
over and over-
releasing myself from a speeding car window,
losing myself in the bed that was never mine.

What would you say
if you could see the looks
on all of their faces?
Contorted and blurry by my own incoherence
and their inability to understand:
"Who are you, now?"

But I know myself.
I know I hold the anger of my father,
"You're pathetic" and "burning bridges"-
The loveless love of my mother.
The ability to disconnect from my own mind,
that has hindered me useless for so long...

You don't know me, and if you did,
these petal like lips would lay untouched, You
wouldn't believe in love
that the truth that created
the depiction of me,
would **** you.

And so I sit in silence.