the only time I'll feel beautiful is if you tell me while you have me pinned up against a wall,
your breath against my neck as the word escapes your lips before they press against mine,
the weight of your body pushing me against the wall harder,
and in that second,
I will realize I only feel beautiful is when I'm with you,
and that's such a cliche thing to feel.

I eventually cried out and made you notice me again.

It rained today, but it wasn't those March thunderstorms that all surprised us.
It rained from her dark brown eyes,
a mix of water and salt that you would think you were near the ocean and not Lake Michigan.
It was rare to see her cry,
water mixing with the dirt color of her eyes,
making the mud we all despised,
enough mud until you slip and fall whenever you're around her.
No one dared to wipe her tears,
we stood in fear,
because this beautiful creature was always the one who wiped ours.
But here she was,
small ocean waves crashing on the sandy color of her cheeks,
and we couldn't do anything about it,
because we weren't aware even the strongest broke,
even the lake had ocean waves.

Bury the blame in your chest and twist it,
do that for me friend, we’ll call it even.
I’m flattered that you came for me,
but if I could, I would have cut your throat with dolphin teeth.
You want to show me around like a prize,
it made me sick
so in seven weeks I’ll die

I have a love hate relationship with wanting to be someone's four letter word.
When the words  "you're mine," come out of his trembling lips in a ghostly whisper, tickling the tiny hairs on my neck,
I will crave him to keep repeating "mine" a million times over until it's engraved like a tattoo in my memory.

And as the morning comes and he must leave my bed,
another four letter word leaves his beautiful mouth,
"I already miss you,"
and I swear I can hear glass breaking.

Glass is breaking because that was the last time he was in my bed,
that was the last time I was his four letter word,
that was the last time he was taking my breath away.

You loved me once,
but now you're ripping air from her lungs instead,
and now I believe that a four letter word is nothing but letters from the alphabet formed together to make people believe that others can do their self loving for them.

I just really want to kiss you, not miss you

When you hear the word "hammer" you may think of it as a tool for pounding a nail onto a wall, to hang a beautiful painting done by a beautiful girl, or to hang a beautiful family photo of a beautiful family.

Or maybe you think of building. Building a house, building a swing set, just those stupid belts those stupid builders hold those stupid hammers in.

But it's rare to have someone think of a hammer as a weapon.

To think of a hammer as a ****** weapon, as the weapon that's bagged, locked deep in the chambers of the evidence room.

As the weapon used by the murderer, and how their twisted mind thought of using a hammer to take someone's life away.

But it's even more rare to think of a hammer as a self harm tool.

It's  even more twisted to think that a person would take a hammer to their own skin, and pound it over and over again until their skin turns red, and then to such a scary bruise you would think it belonged in movies.

That they would keep bruising themselves with that hardware tool until they're shaking so hard they can't even hold the hammer anymore, it feels too heavy in their shaky hands.

Until they fall to the ground, covered in bruises just because they think they'll go away faster than what a razor blade could do.

But little do they know, the shaking is worse than any bruise or cut could ever be.

Why can't a hammer just be a simple hardware tool again?