leave these broken pieces
melted in my mouth
oh these pretty little lies
suit your knife edged smile.
what i would sacrifice for
honesty -
it seems to drown
beneath my fears.
my skin burns
but the fever
is a virus
is a sickness
is you.
i pray to gods
long forgotten
may there be a sense
in these roots.

I would rather
write about the colours of early spring,
than to rack my brain
about the exact shades and swirls
of your eyes.
I would rather
describe the softness of fur
against my fingertips,
than to miss the silken touch
of your hair.
I would rather
wonder about the stars in poems,
than to search for nonexistent love
between the lines.
I would rather cherish the moment,
than to wonder
what could have been.

Do not root
on clouds,
for they tend to
dissolve into nothing
but rain.

You ripped it
my pretty little heart -
but that's okay because
now I can pin it
to a wall
and scream
This Is Art.

Your scars are like stars,
carved into the night sky,
and now they are
bleeding light.

- It's called healing

I write and construct
words
day and night.
And if I lack
the paper
I even
write
on my
skin.

We lit up
like a firework,
beautiful
but fleeting.