her
l(ovely)etters
curve
so easily on
the paper
like tend(er)
rils of ivy or
fine win(gs)
e glasses
enc(ompass)
ircling the thin
blue lines.
maybe she
could write
(me)
a(nd)
word or
two for
m(aybe)
e.
her neat hands
around the pencil.
i wish she would
carve
her name into
my skin.
(she loves me?)

Pity the day that goes unnoticed,
The sunshine dancing on blind eyes.
Mourn the sky for existing to the point of ignorance.
But cheer for the fox that dances at twilight,
For the child who still sits in awe of life.
Root for those who know little and embrace it all.

I want to read the words you write to yourself
I want to see the pictures you paint with no one else in mind
I want to see the butterflies you dream up with eyes wide open
I want to hear the words that whisper you to sleep

I want to see who wakes you up each morning
I want to know what you see when your eyes are closed
I want to hold the hand that helps you breathe straight
I want to be the thought keeping you from jumping

and in that moment,
the weight on your side of the
bed left me again.

---------

every story has
an ending. ours was not an
exception, darling.

Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.

When it comes to us, we are the muffled silence on rocky sunrises,
hushes the morning with a faint orange feeling.
Two of the same, but we fit together like jigsaw pieces.
We are not different in the way we sit, oh, but when she walks,
poised, i know she is elevated far above me.
Unobtainable, boys sneer words they don't understand towards us as if
their words are venom flicking from their tongues to ****.
Oh, and she, she talks her broken words and I could listen for ages, sinfully indulging in what I cannot have.
By standard definition, is it aesthetic or platonic or am I falling for her?

People talk against the beauty we form together
when our two hearts merge into one, constant
and rocking like tidal waves constantly lapping the surface of our cheeks.
And they say we are abominations: we, together, are abnormal.
As they push us down and say they are saving their love
that is soggy like tomato juice bleeding through the sides of a sandwich
and broken, abused, but we are the abnormality while our love is
punctured only by night and new like stardust every morning.
How can our love be wrong when it becomes an art form?
I want her to imprint her faded red lipstick on my bare lips through the silence.
They do little else but talk and talk and their words are spit, filled with hate, while we,
we whisper promises in each other's ears as the sun rises on the rocks and pillows in our dreams.

All they do is hate and hate so blindly.
Their words scrape the sides of concrete condemnation,
but what we plead is love that fills up novels.
They don't know passion unless they're smearing freedoms we can't have in front of our faces.
Our lines aren't fed to us from a book
and I guess that's why when she touches me I know she exists.
Why would anyone hate us?
We love and love and it is so breathtaking and, oh my God,
how can you hate our love if it's become an art form?

Her blue eyes say what mine cannot.

I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
and it fell over and over, its legs crushed with feeling.

What is beauty?
We ask ourselves as we pile powder on our face like cement over our flawed skin.
Most attribute "beauty" as a physical trait, something you are either born with
or must qualify as to achieve happiness.
I think beauty is in the scrawled message at the corner of a Post-It note shoved in your right pocket
and in the tears welling to your eyes that have not yet fallen.
I think beauty is the hair unstraightened with wide tired eyes
and collaped words stumbling over themselves.

All we know about beauty was bottle-fed to us.
As a society, we have set aside what is and isn't beautiful.
It is unattractive to have acne, obscene to have leg hair,
and a downright sin to spend less than twenty minutes on your hair each morning.
But I've counted the zits on your crumpled forehead
and wrote in the stars the strands of your hair.
Your beauty's unbroken and awesome and perfectly celestial.

I've touched a million dizzy tulips, their heads nod off to the storm and rain.
But you held me even when I was unforgiving and broke me through the icy winds.

To me, beauty is not just what encompasses us, what we are born into;
Beauty is the yet-to-come and what you've tranformed to
after moments of fading lights and sick feelings.
Beauty is weaved into our minds, where no one can touch.
It's not in our appearance, nor in our actions.
Holding yourself high isn't cutting it for me.
Beauty is intricate thoughts, what you desire and feel.
I can't see beauty until you tell me by the dying light of noon
how much you'd love to change the world with your fingertips.

I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
but I swore it was beautiful.