Who is to say that "you" is you and "I" is me? Who is to say every penny thrown in a well is to wish for something you don't already have.
I have three empty bullet cases in my pocket and a funny reason for each of them being there.
You look out the window and discover a body floating face down in your pool except you don't have a pool and the body is you. It's me. It's everything that never was.
I am a punch line in search of a set up.
What is it like under your bed? Have I become the monster that lives under it?
birds are chirping. this is familiar. you can do familiar. "it's a mess" I say. quickly you reply "it's not a mess, it's pieces of your life." my life's pieces; not mine. It's taken shape as hundreds of tiny copies from the same **** story. you're fragile. you're the yellow copy of a receipt. stupid little paper girl.
this is going to be terrible and that's going to have to be okay because death is open to interpretation now.
there is something to be said about lying under every window sill in the house just to follow the sunlight and pretend it hasn't been dark since you left.
you look back in five years and realize that "you" in every poem has become yourself. everybody grew up and moved out of the sadness except for you.
dress up as yourself when you loved someone and stare in the mirror until it cracks. you never thought you'd be leaving the lights on waiting for yourself to come home. you'll never understand and that's the whole point.
always leaving never really arriving. you can stay only long enough for them to know who you are. nothing can remain the same because that's not real, is it? they say nothing lasts forever. let's be nothing. stop existing. we'll be timeless.
on your wedding day
I will sit in wooden church pews more uncomfortable than your fathers stare because he knows what we are both thinking.
I will let my eyes wander through eyelashes heavy with reflections from the light of your smile as she walks down the aisle.
I watch as your hands shake like a child chasing a sudden warm breeze only to find a tornado.
you say your vows and I can only imagine ***** overflowing from your mouth because the name you say after "I love you" is not mine. It is not even close.
friends and family rise and pianos begin to play what sounds like a death march. You will have your first dance with her moments after this and all I can remember is the jealousy in your eyes the night you wished you were the one dancing with me.
the room clears out and I can only think of the bed you will make love to her in. I hope you still find my stray hairs between the sheets. I know your finger tips will caress her sides in a way I never knew how to receive.
the song of my heart was always a little off pitch, so, when she plays the pianos of your heart I can only hope this time it will be in the right
As you read this you are traveling 220 kilometers per second across the galaxy and I cannot stop thinking about the fact that ninety percent of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not "you."
Which explains why your eyes likely originated from the belly of a star.
There is always a light at the end of every tunnel and if there isn't you should consider screaming until your voice echoes across the galaxies tucked within your irises.
I wonder if the trees know they must die every year for their leaves to become new again. Wounds line your heart like sticky notes left in the sun and the origin of you has been faded.
Black is the color of death but to your funeral I will wear white.
I will celebrate the death of everything trembling inside of you and stitch together funeral dresses for every version of you I watched leave without a goodbye.
I will wear white to your funeral to celebrate your rebirth soon to come.
Many hands will tie your old self to a chair and set the line between real and ideal on fire but only time can turn a flame into embers.
Most of the cells in your body are just empty space and skin is only a burial ground for old versions of yourself to die.
Your fingernails are only tiny shovels digging up a bed of dirt to plant new pieces of your DNA in.
I will cover my best dress in dirt and stain every white hem in celebration of the death of the fear inside of you and the birth of hope.
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.
You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.
wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.
How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.
A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.
I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.
On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).
New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.
I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy
**** me platonically.
Measure the distance between your fingers and the synapse in my brain.
Check the amplitude across my breastplate and The absence of love marks semblance covering it.
Detach your hips from mine and run away from Me faster.
Look along the purlieu of my heart and shake me Harder with subliminal messages between Glances.
Touch my versification to your mouth and do not Stop your flickering eyes from studying the genial Eulogies between every line.
Sir, you cannot touch antique pieces of marrow And bone.
This blood is obsolete.
How anachronistic to have a heart pumping Inside of a dead soul.
Please tell me a story, the side I could never see.
I would like to sit in an open field with you and scream at the top of our lungs
until ever word that's ever knotted in my throat comes pouring out of my mouth and dripping from my lips like blood
I would like to scream for every plea for help you've ever held inside and cry for every tear your heart refuses to release
Scream with me until we've clinched our fists so tight that every blood vessel made of nightmares untold will burst into a pool of secrets
Until our bones are wrapped in layers of nostalgic thoughts
and my spine coated in leaves closer to death than I believe I am
Though blood may be the poison watching each word fall from your heart immerses my soul like crimson relief