my sun is a cutout of yellow paper, stars too small in their wrinkled sky. im existing in a universe crumpled and

left to dry– no wonder i’ve got crooked seams. cheap thread and cheaper whiskey will sew up sutures just as well, though, and

                          the scars last twice as long.

at times, i wish my eyes had only seen
horizon's haze of darkened clouds instead
ignored the sirens calling so serene
and burnt the bridge that carried off the dead
but i did not, and borne from what we hate
come roses blooming, bloodstains on the dirt
in time, they reach the same destructive fate
and we, the lowly seekers, reach the hurt
the heart we wear upon our sleeves is broke
with every tear, the stitches hold less deep
as time moves on, we try to quell the smoke
of fire raging just before we sleep

at times, i think we're better off as friends
but god, i hope the tempest never ends

oh
i’m so tired of your lovely eyes
and your heartbreak and the holes inside of you

of course love hurts, of course love hurts
did you think cracking yourself like a coconut
upon the sandy shore
wouldn’t hurt?

how else can you drink the sweet nectar inside?
love is pain, and to love is
to be pained
the most glorious way

it’s a vagabond heart

roaming, sticky-tongued through

valleys of boys and girls:

all can be bled for, just take up the sword yourself.


i’m a

traveling postage stamp scar collection

turned love story