i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.

She got up this morning,
sun shining through the blind.
She took a look in the mirror,
and something crossed her mind.

You weren't there to see her wake,
she didn't see your smile,
for when she does, she feels like
her days are all worthwhile.

She went into work today,
kids running through the halls.
She looked at plans for tomorrow
and is sad when nobody calls.

She got in her car to go home today.
On the radio she heard a song;
it reminded her of you
and how hurtful it is you're gone.

She went out with a friend tonight,
smiled and wore a brave face,
for all she really wants in life
is to have you in this place.

She gets a daunting feeling,
one that won't disappear.
What's the point in all of this?
What's the point when you're not here?

She went to sleep that night,
tried to prepare for the days ahead.
If she looks real careful,
you're there on your side of the bed.

Stroke her hair and tell her
that no matter what life throws,
you have a love like no other;
in death it continues to grow.

She got up this morning,
sun shining through the blind.
She took a look in the mirror,
and something crossed her mind.

You WERE there to see her wake,
and she could see your smile,
and when she did, she realized
you're only absent for a while.

She closes her eyes and in the dark,
she knows she'll see you again.
The only thing that troubles her
is not being able to say when.

For now she must be patient,
and one day her time will come,
and you'll be there to take her hand
and safely guide her home.

I have songs within me
The words come here and there
As I go about my days
I feel connected to them
I feel there are things I want to share

It's as if my torso is a cabinet or a safe
Shut, locked
But full of words unorganizedly stacked
Making noise if I move
And if I open the door and tip
Tons of words will come spilling out