I met a boy a few years ago.
His eyes were always searching for something lost,
but he never knew what he was looking for.

We became acquaintances,
and after a while,
dare I say,
we became friends.

He never talked much about his past,
but I was able to read his absent eyes,
the way he never made eye contact for too long,
or the way he forced himself away from anything
he might get attached to.

His eyes are always just as anxious as mine.

He is sitting right next to me now,
just as lost in the professor’s lecture as I am,
and he’s writing too,
pencil feverously scribbling whatever thoughts
cloud his mind in this moment.

It’s been four years since I met this boy,
and I have never been able to figure out his angle.

There must be something he wants,
some reason he still talks to me.
No one has stayed by my side for this long.

Could it be possible that he actually cares about me?
No,          of          course          not,
That’s an idiotic thing to think.

But why else would he still be around me
when all I have been good for are
learning how to bake the perfect cupcakes together,
taking photos of the local wildlife,
and late night conversations about the stars?

The men I have known don’t care about those things.
The only thing that matters to them is
what’s between my legs,
and nothing else.

So could this one be different?

Could someone actually care about me?

I am currently sitting in class.
My body is screaming to break out
of this monotonous cycle.
If my heart beats any harder, I fear it might actually
b    u    r    s    t.

The professor is speaking but
the only words I hear are yours.
Each combination of letters and syllables that had escaped your lips
drenched me in this thick, venomous bile and
I can still feel it sloshing around in my boots now.

You took my credulous soul,
tricking me into believing you were good, you were pure,
and then ****** every drop of energy and sanity
you could get out of me
before leaving to drain another victim.

This is not the first time this has happened, either.

The amount of times I have been left for dead
has torn down my confidence and
burned my self-respect
into a crisp.

You labeled my body, “a piece of meat”,
its only use to pleasure and satisfy.
Having that beaten into my head,
literally,
I began to actually believe it.

My opinions did not matter, so my mouth should not speak.
Anytime people communicated with me was on their own time,
when they would get something out of it,
whether it be diffusing boredom, asking favors, ***, etc.
And I would give it to them,
all the while silently begging that their intentions
were not all about them.
But when they got what they wanted, they left.

What I learned-
people             will             only             use             you.
-and that is what I believed was normal
for the longest time.

Trust is difficult when the
only question running through your mind
asks what everyone's angles are.
Because everyone you
had gotten close to,
had one.

call me Pluto--
for I am tucked
Away into the
darkest corner of
the universe where
forgotten stardust collects,
hidden behind gaping
shadows--
never with the  
the privilege of
being sun-kissed
and obliterated by
the warmest star.

.Once a writer
.has released poetry
.within your veins

.you will forever
.be beautiful
-DDF

Death sat upon her chapped lips
while midnight crept up, still
with intentions to capture the sun.

She wasn't the kind of person who fell in love slowly.
It was more of an immediate transportation
into love than a leap or a fall
She fell in love fast
She fell in love so fast it was hard to keep up.