I can pick at my skin for hours
Focus on every conceivable flaw
Shake until my body curls up on the shower floor
Most have never seen me at my worst, when
I’m stuck in an apathetic neutral state
Washed out between the highs of my need for thrill
And the lows of panic screaming in my veins
I have the the soul of an extrovert beaten to submission
Shot down and repeating the mantra “worthless”
What do you believe, if not yourself
How could I?
How many more steps do I take before I’m back,
Before the mirror doesn't make me want to shatter
What is my mantra now?

Vorfreude; anxious
anticipation shedding its skin to what lays below,
Dread. Such dread.

Dread not of seeing you, love,
But of knowing that you will not be in any trace of haste to see me..
Dread not of skin against skin, love,
But of noticing that you are edging away, slowly, from my
Burning fingertips..

Dread of not being able to overlook the fact that if I pull
my hand away, you will not reach over even when the screen starts
running the credits.

Dread of becoming fully aware,
though you lying to me - and not to yourself as well I hope - makes it
easier to fool myself
that I am not beautiful
In your eyes(do you still care to search mine?)
as I was when I was first focused in your
Line of vision.
As I was when I first caught your
Attention.

Allow yourself to cry, but not enough to wake with puffy eyes. Tip toe like the rain; stomp on the ground, louder than the storm in you. Be the background noise people need for a change. Kiss their eyelids shut. Spend a night on the roof, stand at the very edge, spread your wings. But do not let the wind get the chance to rip those tears wider than the puddle that you have bled. Do not let the pain define you. Time does not sympathise, and if you miss winter, make pretend snow angles in the fall leaves.

Fingers against my cheek,
Whispering, "beautiful",
Then;
Since;
never again

You were always so fascinated with silhouettes.
The way the ***** of the nose flowed into the lips,
flowed into the curve of the chin,
then the ******* and finally the heart.
You told me I looked beautiful that night
that you first kissed me.
I could swear I heard my heart soar but
maybe beneath that flutter,
I failed to notice the slight crack.
Because the moment you made your home
in my ribcage,
I lost segments of myself until the day you left,
I now notice, you actually left nothing at all.
Looking back, I see that it was actually my fault.
I was hasty in loving you so fully.
My mother told me to be wary of the drugs on the street,
the day I left home.
But she failed to mention that some drugs come
with a beating heart and hazel eyes.
I still feel you flowing in my blood stream.
Your scent, permanently embedded into my bones.
And I don't know what's sadder:
The fact that I'm still in love with you,
or the fact that you were never loved me to begin with.
You only loved the idea of me.
You only loved my skeleton.
And you were all I ever wanted.
But I was not brilliant enough.
Now I see that you only love silhouettes
because you're afraid of fully seeing someone,
out and vulnerable.
So, you settle for shadows.