he wrote my life down like he was me.
he saw the tears i cried and the words i spoke and the lies i told saying
"its alright, i'm okay."
the days i hid away were the ones he would be happy,
but happiness only leaked if you were willing to accept the fact that i was broken.
he locked his eyes into mine
and i couldn't find the key,
so he opened his mouth like these words were going to come out and be my first aid kit
leading towards the light,
failure nailed into a lonely pit,
but he smiled.
the deep inhales
and heavy exhales were my life
communicated in disasters
only to be plastered by my sighs.
and the words
"no i'm just tired"
came out more than the hours i spent washed up on a winters day
without a smile or something to say so say it.
say the words like you mean,
no twisted vocabulary,
the laughs may vary,
not many people know about feelings.
though feelings lead to love
love leads to hate,
be my fate by the reason i wake up every morning.
be the sunshine that will help me ignore the closed door of family.
the scattered songs
or the long days and nights with prosperous fights with envy as my gun and no shield.
the disparity and loneliness of home only cut me down more,
the scars opened into black holes and only oblivion was taken in by them while i nodded
accepting that my black hole was only me and myself.
i only heal my wounds to hide them
i'm not hiding any more.
he wrote
"i found you."
i found me to.

I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.

I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
every day.
Imagine the possibilities you could
innovate,
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
ideas,
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
anyways,
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.

I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.

Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Down,
Down.
Death could possibly be the resemblance.

What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.

Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.

Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
stop,
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.

In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Ghostly,
Figure.
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
eyes,
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
cheeks,
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.

Needs more work.

Nothing is wrong
But everything is wrong
There’s no reason for this sadness,
But it’s inescapable
It’s pulling me down, drowning me
Over and over again
Lost in this sea of thoughts
Unable to find the way home
Tired of being here,
But unable to move
So lonely, but so unable to talk
So exhausted,
But always awake
The waves of guilt and shame never sleep