No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home

I always compared you to the stars
like the way your freckles seemed to spread across the sky
or the way I would look at you
on the loveliest of nights
but would still have that sadness in my eyes.
I always compared you to my stars
because you were everywhere
in my mind during the night
but you never saw my sun,
the best part of me.
You always compared me to smoke
the way my smile comes fast
and fades slowly
or the way I have the tendency
to be here now
but leave before you can cough.
You always compared me to smoke
because you say I poison your mind
but living without me is unimaginable.
You are my stars
I am your smoke
like the sun needs the moon
I lay you down
We want to compare
So I blew my smoke
to the stars
but the wind carried it
the other way.

I've always found the concept of seeing the future in the dregs of a drink, ridiculous.
How are the leaves supposed to know who exactly has consumed the drink,
Let alone what may or may not happen to them in the near or distant future?
Do the leaves absorb a modicum of your soul
And use that to project predictions unto you?
By that logic, is it so the more tea you drink,
The less of your soul stays with you?
I may be the only one, but I find that idea to be very discomfiting.
I drink rather a lot of tea, you see.
At least a cup a day.
And now I fear it may be the cause of my untimely cynicism.
Of course, that may just be my tea-addled brain looking for something to blame it on.
As it is, I will continue to blame all negativity on witches and psychics and herbs and tea,
Because there is no one around to prove me wrong,
Or provide an alternate answer.

The month I spent in the hospital was strange and dismal
The days seemed to blur into one long melancholia,
I was sick and tired of being sick and tired
My body was weak and so was my fight
The hospital's sterile smell and white walls began to feel like home

I remember the first time I saw myself, in that dark and depressing hospital bathroom
I caught my reflection in the mirror
Ashen skin, dark circles, protruding bones
Who was this girl?
I winced at the sight of her

I looked like I was dying, but then again, the doctors thought I was
What was happening to me? My body was betraying me and it showed
No wonder my mother had been looking at me like she had seen a ghost lately
With sorrow and fright filled eyes

I woke up one night to her sobs
I pretended not to hear, it was easier that way
I was so selfish then
Too wrapped up in my own misery to hear her cries

The days felt like years in there
Eventually the visitors and flowers stopped
But I didn't mind
I needed to clear my thoughts
And watching people try to hide their trepidation when they saw me for the first time was growing old

People never know what to say or do around a sick person
What do you say to someone who's dying?
Do you ask them how they are? You already know the answer
But you ask anyway, then they lie and say they're fine
Because "that's a stupid question" is an inappropriate response

I remember the day they said I could go home
Suddenly, I felt dysphoric
Why was I feeling this way? I hated it here
But in a twisted way I was going to miss it
Because sometimes, we find comfort in chaos

once upon a time, i woke without your
resonance vibrating through my callused fingers.
once upon a time, i traveled without the constant
and never-ending presence of you.
once upon a time, i could have never remembered the shape
of your freckles, the churning of your irises.
once upon a time, i would have laughed at the idea of needing someone
so terribly, so hungrily.

this time, i cannot blink without the inordinate yearn
to bleed among your crackling pigmentation.
this time, the thought, the mere idea of mornings without you,
are enough to
**** me.

There is nothing convenient about answering a call to be flooded with a sea of tears & thoughts at four in the morning when you need to be up at seven or a collection of band tees cluttering your closet space.

There is nothing convenient about driving 100 miles an hour down the freeway in the middle of a shift or missing a lighter every time you go to smoke.

There is nothing convenient about standing in the rain until a fight is resolved or finding melted guitar picks all over your laundry.

A love that exists according to convenience
is not a love at all

You'll know the first time you decide to kiss his scars instead of your own because all of a sudden the pain radiating from his eyes hurts worse than the pain growing from your core.

You'll know the first time you find yourself spending countless hours caring for his friends because all of a sudden everyone who matters to him matters to you.

*You'll know the first time you decide that the sound of his voice & the scent of his skin are worth being inconvenienced for the rest of your life because the lack of either feel like the end of the world.