i’m still heartbroken,
lost without the person i turned to when my world was upside down.
but you proved that you stopped caring,
just like everyone else before you.
i know i am difficult,
a mess that’s so broken you kept getting cut on the pieces.
you promised me you would be there through thick and thin,
but now here i am becoming a narcissist writing about the pain you’ve caused.

His nicotine tongue was the most conniving part of his existence.
Every time it made contact with mine,
I tasted Marlboros,
the only brand he would buy.
Whatever his nicotine tongue
did to mine sent me into
a tornado of insanity each time,
like I was one of his cigarettes,
but he put me out,
stepped on me,
before I could burn his lips.
His nicotine tongue told his mouth
to speak such brutal words
that would make me
fall in love with him
over and over,
lighting me up and up,.
He had never kept me lit,
put me out before I could
trick him into thinking
"love"
could be a hole
he could also fall in.
He had carried me
around in his pocket,
his nicotine tongue
telling him to fuel his craving
and pull me out,
wrapping his mouth
around me and breathing me in
until I was no more.
But the more he
breathed me in,
the more his
nicotine tongue
started to die.
I was toxic.
He never did fall in love with me,
but I did end up
being the one to
stomp
him
out.

don't fall in love with the ones who only crave intimacy.
the ones who are there because
they're driven by sweet words and an even sweeter kiss.
and that drive
gets higher,
it gets faster,
as more touch gets involved.
but they only crave intimacy,
while you crave something much more.
don't fall in love with the ones who will touch you
and make you feel like
you're floating,
because soon enough they'll push you to the ground,
leaving you to question everything with nothing but
the bruises and scars on your body
left over from
their touch,
their kisses,
their words.
don't fall in love with the ones who only crave intimacy.
they won't want you how you want them.
trust me,
because I crave intimacy.

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

It's been a month since your fragile voice made contact with my alert ears and it almost burns as I admit I miss the way you spoke.
I could never meet your eyes-do I even remember the color of them?
And every glance at you feels like you're drawing blood from my veins when you're not even making contact with me.
Change, change, CHANGE.
It all seems so relevant, or maybe irrelevant and I just want you to be happy but not hearing your voice talking to me feels like a million needle points and I shouldn't let you get to me.
It's been a month.
Have you ****** around more after me before the word "change" hit your tongue?
Or was I just another nothing of a female body to fuel your addiction that actually made you realize that change is all you got?
Seventeen years doesn't get you far, now does it.
But karma, that's going to get you.
You're nothing, 'cause you told us we were something (what a lie!) and it's going to loop back around.
But I miss your fragile voice making contact with my alert ears.

i've found myself swerving off the road when the sun is setting.
when splashes of orange, pink, yellow spray across the summer sky my eyes wander away from the road and i'm lost in the color.
i've risked my life just to catch a glimpse of heaven's painting, and i think that's how it is every time i look at you.
i chase sunsets like i chase you,
always wanting to see more of you and not being able to stop myself.
you're as beautiful as a sunset,
and i'll keep chasing you until i crash.

Touch me all over, let your fingertips gently brush over my skin, making parts of me come alive I never knew was possible.
Breathe in my scent, with your lips pressed against my neck, spreading a spark of electricity through me so vibrant I inhale sharply.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, until your name is escaping my mouth and the taste of it is burned onto my tongue, with no want of ever leaving.

the pills made me feel something when the boys didn't.

i'm trying my hardest to reconnect with old flames,
but it's nearly impossible when they either only talked to you because they wanted to *******,
or decided that finding another high was more important than holding onto a friendship.
i can't count all the friends i lost on one hand,
the sad reality that people do leave,
no matter how often they tell you they'll stay.
i'm trying my hardest to reconnect with old flames,
but nobody wants anything to do with me anymore.

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?

to the self harmer holding the blade, wanting nothing more but for it to kiss flesh, know that you've been days clean and you don't deserve another scar.

to the self harmer digging your nails into your thigh after a fight with your parents, know that this storm will pass.

to the self harmer shaking as you bury countless blades in the dirt, know that you've never been as strong as you are now.

to the self harmer hiding deep under your skin, know that your scars are nothing more than a reminder that you're still alive.

to the self harmer rocking the realest smile you have had in weeks, you made it.

i pick at my skin it a desperate attempt to pull the anxiety out.
if it could ooze out every pore and tear,
maybe i wouldn’t be shaking,
fueled with the rage and fear panic attacks hold.

i pick at my body to rip at the insecurity.
scars are a sign of my fragile self image,
makeup is the mask i use to forget.
a thick black line tracing my eyelids;
a heavy layer of powder masking the blushing of my cheeks.

i pick at my mind to understand what this diagnosis means to me.
i pick and i pick and pick at every idea and thought of this hell the universe has placed me in.
i tear and rip at them until my mind is as numb as my skin.
i pick until i can pretend i can understand.

You're a hickey on my neck,
bruised and red,
marking your territory,
refusing to fade.

At the age of 16, I promised myself I’d never get addicted.
I swore to myself that not one thing could drown me in the ocean that is addiction, but at age 18, I shattered the promise into pieces.

Growing up, the smell of cigarette smoke escaping my mom’s sweaters always made me sick to my stomach,
but as soon as sadness found me at the age of 16, it whispered in my ear to find the addiction in nicotine.
I found myself sneaking into the garage to steal cigarettes out of half full packs,
blowing smoke out of my window at the Devil’s hour.
And at age 18 I replaced the stolen packs of cigarettes with bought packs of Marlboro Blues.
The packs sit at the bottom of my purse, the smell masked by over usage of perfume,
the addiction hidden by me telling everyone who loves me “I don’t like it anyway.”

Growing up with an alcoholic father, full of terrifying nights wondering whether or not I’d see him come home after the bar,
I swore to myself I’d never drink any sort of alcohol,
but that was soon broken when I found the bottle of wine no one wanted to drink,
and the forgotten beer cans nobody from my family drank at a birthday party.
I drowned it all, and for that second I understood why my father could want this addiction so much.
The burn was a numbing experience, and I found more relief in shots of mixed liquor and blackouts than any therapy session.

There’s no “growing up” story with the blade, with the cutting, with the self harm.
Maybe I was always fascinated with blades. Maybe I was drawn to it. Maybe I liked the idea of it,
but becoming addicted to dragging a blade across my skin was never something I could imagine.
When the knife first drew blood,
a part of me thought the waterfall of crimson was beautiful,
trailing down my arm in a river of red,
dropping into a puddle like raindrops on a stormy day.
The blade cut through skin as easy as pen on paper,
and I promised myself I would never become addicted,
but the faded white lines on my arms tell a different story.

I remember meeting you,
I remember telling myself,
“****, you’re *******,”
because even if I did promise myself never to become addicted to anything,
I easily became addicted to you.
But you,
you weren’t toxic like every other thing in my life.
You were the sunshine through storm clouds,
hazel eyes sparkling when you talked about something you love.
But it wasn’t how you talked about the items in your life that made me become addicted,
it’s how you light up when talking about me.
It’s how your eyes look before I kiss you,
full of not only lust but so much love,
a love that is so foreign to me I can’t find myself to ever want to stop kissing you.
It’s how you kiss my hand, or my forehead,
or sing in the car when I’m not okay.
It’s how at home I feel in your arms,
and maybe that’s cliche,
but if this is addiction,
then I never want to be in rehab.

You told us stories about your trip to Hell like it was Disneyland.
Like it was just a California spring break trip, but I could see the matte fear in your once galaxy shining eyes.
They reflected the flames, and the horror, and worst of all the blood that dripped down your own pale arms.
You told us about the boys who kissed you as if you were you were all they had. You said that's how they made you feel.
You talked about one boy in particular, but you refused to say his name.
I could tell it would be poison coming off your lips as you spoke.
You said that he touched you like you were made of glass and gave you drinks of burning fire.
You said you felt safe, that he made butterflies fly out of your scars, but your voice became quiet.
As you became quieter and quieter, your story about Hell dimming out, you looked at me and I saw the real story in your burning eyes.
He never touched you like glass.
He broke you over and over, and that's why open wounds covered old ones.
There were no butterflies.
The drink of fire taught you to be pushed around and to be opened like a little kid's birthday present, but this was no birthday present.
Before your eyes had left mine, your shaking finger went to your lips.
Your story of Hell would forever be my secret.

Instead of stealing glances at me, then turning away when I feel your sneaky eyes burning on me and pretend I don't exist,
how about you stop acting like nothing had happened between us.
Stop acting like you never hugged me so tight that first week of school,
wrapping me in your arms like I belonged there and at one point I thought I did.
You're acting like you never kissed me once gently,
then let the words "**** it"
escape your lips before you grabbed me around the neck and kissed me again,
hard enough it seemed like the world stopped and it was just us.
Kissed me until I was seconds from ripping your clothes off,
but I pushed you away because I can sense toxic,
and hell, you were beaming.
Stop acting like nothing happened,
like I don't exist,
and instead of stealing glances,
buy one.

I'd rather be kissed hard than anything else.
Grabbed, pushed, pulled, tugged, bitten at.
Pain doesn't drive me insane, does it?
That sense of realization, that spark of hurt I feel,
I know I'm alive.
When I'm treated rough,
I know I'm alive.
I'm addicted to that feeling,
even if pain inflicted from others is what gets me there.

I would want him to push me against a wall,
hard enough that my skin digs into the harshness of it
as his mouth sloppily finds mine.

He can tear the air from my lungs with
every move he makes,
making it impossible for me
to catch my breath
like I'm trying to breath as
a fire's going on,
the flames licking at my skin
with a red hot tongue.

He can scratch at my skin,
pulling me closer,
as if being near will fill
the empty void,
the endless cloud of self hatred
buried deep in the lust
that we both feel.  

He can bite and **** at
my neck, my mouth, my chest,
desperately trying to taste every bit
of me like a wolf on a hunt

He can toss me and pull me
and treat me like I'm nothing while
whispering "you're everything"
off his fire tongue as I'm just
savouring my addiction of feeling alive.

My addiction of pain.
My addiction of rough.

you told me you loved me the best  when I was at my most vulnerable stage,
so I put you between my thighs,
and let you love me as hard as you could.

You meant something to me.
Your lips tasted like nicotine, and your body made mine feel
like a burning building.
I wanted to scream at you and slap the
sense into you and leave you a thousand times over,
but I also wanted to *******, make love to you like we were the last
two people on earth and it was the only way to survive.
I wanted to claw and scratch at your skin for your attention,
but I also wanted you to shield your eyes because I was an
eclipse and baby, you would go blind.
I needed you like ******* air in my lungs,
while I craved you like the burn of ***** down my throat.
You scarred and tore me apart,
but you meant something to me.

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 wanna be strong, but it's not easy anymore."*
My favorite band sings these lyrics so delicately,
and maybe I don't relate to the entire song completely,
but these nine words always catch my attention
as the song comes on the silly little playlists I make,
the few songs I put together to try and cheer myself up
on days where I all think of is drowning myself in stolen liquor.

But these songs,
these songs aren't happy,
these songs aren't sweet,
these songs shouldn't be categorized
in the category of "cheering me up"
but somehow they do.

And this is why I never believe
when someone tells me
bands and the lyrics they write,
the words they write can somehow
turn into perfect melodies,
can't save someone's life.

I remember when I first smoked.
I thought I'd be coughing for weeks,
but now I smoke a pack a day as if I can't get enough of inhaling a sickly sweet smoke into my lungs.
It reminded me of family reunions and hugs from my long dead grandparents.  
I swore I'd never get addicted.

I remember when I first drank.
I attempted to drown the shot,
but it seemed like the liquid crawled back up my throat like a fire looking for a burn, but I kept going back for more.
I kept on getting burned, drowning another after another until I couldn't remember my name or the date
when in reality I was trying to forget yours and the day I met you.
I swore I'd never get addicted.

I remember the first time I cut.
Blood poured from my wrist in ribbons of red
and in a sickly way someone in me might have thought it was beautiful,
the way it fell to the bathroom floor in a
drip drip drip waterfall.
the razor cut through skin as easy as a butter knife through butter
and at first I didn't know I would love it so much.
I swore I'd never get addicted.

I remember the first day I met you.
Your brown eyes could go from happy to sad in a split second,
but the grin that formed on your face like an artist carved it on there was so contagious I found myself grinning, too.
Your hands were always cold, holding mine, touching my waist, moving my hair out of my face.
I kissed them to keep them warm.
Your kiss sent fireworks throughout my body, like it was 4th of July
and I was just a little kid screaming at the colors and the sounds as your lips explored mine, and my hands explored your body.
I could never get enough of you.
I swore I'd never get addicted.

"I love you dearly..."
You spoke those four words to me countless times,
like a mother should
but a mother also should notice
the harsh words that follow
that feel like a bullet her daughter's chest.
"You're tearing this family apart."
"Maybe you should have killed yourself."
"You're going to ruin Christmas."
"Nothing is wrong with you."
And how do you not notice the added bracelets?
Or see how a light's always on in my room in
the crazy hours of the night when you're  
creeping around for another swallow of pills?
Or how I lock my door when I go to a
friend's house so you don't go in there?
You told me you wanted to jump in front of a car.
A train.
Overdose.
You say we don't care.
Is that why you treat me this way?
I'm numb now, Mom.
I feel nothing.
You've done it again.
I thought it was over,
when I just started to trust you.
But now?
Now I don't trust you.
Or anybody.

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 wanted to kiss Death one Monday afternoon,
but Death had moved his face away from mine,
instead putting his chapped lips to my ear and whispered,
"my girl, you are too beautiful and too loved, you have too much to offer for something as dark and as lonely to kiss you.
so my girl, I will give you Life instead, and you will take her hands in yours, allowing yourself to be the strong girl I know you can be.
and when it's your time,
I will let you kiss me,
but my girl,
that time is not now."
Death had vanished from my view,
and was replaced with the wonderful mystery of Life.
I took her hands in mine,
filled with the desire that maybe I did have something to offer.

i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
a mix that has kept me alive for far too long.
i’ve barely slept,
i want you to kiss me until our lips are bruised and touch me hard enough that traces of your fingertips can still be seen on my skin.
i’ve barely slept,
i miss the feeling of someone’s mouth on my neck,
the feeling of gentle kisses starting at my collarbone and falling lower and lower and lower.
i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
when what i really need is to find my relief in you.

love is a four letter word that has always terrified me.
it has been replaced with other four letter words-  "lies" and "gone",
harsh words with harsher meanings buried underneath the gentleness of love.
but when I look at you,
I know that "love" is more than just a word.
I know that it doesn't hold nightmares behind its sweet exterior.
I can look at you and see myself loving you for forever,
and maybe forever is too long,
and maybe forever is more terrifying than a four letter word could ever be.
maybe you can't see forever when you look into my eyes,
but I see forever with just one smile of yours.

sad, sleepless, lonely nights are not my friend.
I suppose putting the painful thoughts on paper could do wonders for my mind,
but no poem can make my demons disappear.
sadness comes in waves, and if I don't get thrown a life vest soon,
the waves will swallow me whole, pulling me under piece by piece until I'm nothing of a shell of a human body who once could fake a smile.
making a pen bleed out my words is better than a blade bleeding them from my wrist,
but the thought still consumes me.
I'm terrified that one of these days the blade will grab hold of me
and there won't be any turning back. one of these days,
the blade won't just trace my skin in a desperate attempt for crimson,
it will dig in
and I'll just be another scar.

and just for some reason
I discovered that I deserved better
than I what I was receiving.

I'm sorry I fell too hard.
I'm sorry you refuse to meet me.
I'm sorry all my friends leave me just for another high.
I'm sorry my parents fight all the time.
I'm sorry I can't say no, but the one time I do, it's disobeyed and thrown back into my face.
I'm sorry I didn't like him because I was concerned for your safety.
I'm sorry you're too stubborn to realize that.
I'm sorry I'm too stubborn to let go.
I'm sorry I was always there for you when you weren't there for me.
I'm sorry I keep disappointing everyone I meet.
I'm sorry no one understands that I can't be alone anymore.
I'm just so **** sorry.

Can't you tell that my mind is just messier and messier with thoughts of you? And I crave the blade and I crave the smoke but most of all I crave your touch. I fear you crave her touch again. I fear you the recklessness she poured into you. I fear I'll lose you to her. I've already lost myself to these thoughts.

Sorry you hate me so much.
Sorry I can't help but throw words of advice at you,
but you are so sad,
and you had brought me down in the months I've known you,
and it's such a habit to bring you back up instead of bringing myself up.

Sorry she tore your heart out of your chest,
and you can't help but keep ripping up the pieces,
but don't you see she's not even remotely close to being "worth it"?

Sorry I made you talk to me again,
after I told you stop,
but you made the promise that you wouldn't leave,
although how many times has that promise been made?

Sorry I want to find you,
and scream at you to make you understand
that no girl will ever understand you,
like I understood you,
when I stayed all night with you the night I came home after a long trip,
and all we did was talk about the stars,
and I saved your life for what seemed like the millionth time.

But I'm even more sorry for not even wanting you,
and for you not wanting me,
and for you being blinder than ever,
because you depend on others to be your happiness,
and aren't you aware that's the most self destructive thing you can put on yourself?

I'm never going to strip for you. I'm not going to stand in front of you and slowly take off all my clothes, while you watch. I'm not a slow person. I will push you down, and kiss you so hard you won't be able to breathe, so you push me away and strip me of my clothes yourself. you'll tear them off like its the one thing you need to do to survive, and I'll tear yours off, my mouth never leaving yours. we'll be a tangled mess of limbs and sweat covered clothes, kissing every part of each other, tasting one another as if we're each other's need for survival. I'm never going to strip for you, because I am in need of fast. I am in need of want. I am in need of you.

I want to write a

love letter to

you,

but I can’t

because

I don’t know you

yet.


I don’t know

if you’ll even

be able to

tolerate

the little things

I do

everyday.


How I

shake

my

hands

when anxiety

fills my body

over the stupid things.


Or how I

chew

the

straws

on every drink

I ever get.


Or how even

my

hands

are

shy

hiding under

sweater sleeves.


Maybe how

my

laugh

echoes

in a store

wherever we

go.


Will you be

able to

tolerate

such silly

little things,

my lover?


I want to write

you a

love letter,

but I don’t

even know

you yet.

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.

sometimes I want the blade other times I want you because honestly *what's the difference

I eventually cried out and made you notice me again.

I mistook lust for love
when you brought me flowers picked from your mother's garden,
but I thought it was an invitation to your bedroom,
so the next night I stayed over and left marks on your back.

tie me to the bed and have your way with me. 
touch me, kiss me, bite me, **** me. 

have your way with me. 

love me hard enough that every demon taking home in my mind flee in search of another lost soul. 

because with you, i am not lost.
touch me, kiss me, bite me, **** me. 

find poetry in every flaw on my skin,
but make them seem beautiful as your lips trace the scars.
with you, i am not lost.
breathe life into me as your fingers dig into my hips,
causing sparks as our bodies meet.
our tongues will intertwine,
and with every kiss all catholics will turn in their graves.
have your way with me.
love me hard enough that the world stops turning,
and there is only us left in this place.
touch me, kiss me, bite me, **** me.
find poetry in every curve of my body.
enough so that every poet becomes green with envy.
have your way with me.

1, 2, 3, 4,*
    I declare a ****** war.
5, 6, 7, 8,
    Strap up and don't be late.
9, 10,
    Come on over, let's begin.  
11, 12,
    Point my shotgun to your head.
1, 2, 3, 4,
    Why'd I find you in her bed?
5, 6, 7, 8,
    Don't move, it's already too late.
9, 10,
    Hit the floor.
11, 12,
    You're no more.

(January 30 2016)
"should we blame it on the mental illness or the addiction?"
*you have to be a little messed up in the head to fall into addiction.
so it's okay to blame both.

she was someone you didn't want to stop looking at.
you had to pay attention to her, or you would feel like you were missing something.
you payed attention to how she read a ragged old novel with a title you never heard of,
how she gripped it so hard, her fingers turned white that you almost couldn't see the tattered cuticles that surrounded the black nail polish of her nails.
how she held a cigarette delicately, taking in long drags as she lifts it to her mouth.
how when she was outside, the sun changed her hair color so much you couldn't even tell what it really is.
you payed attention to her smile, her laugh, her eyes as they met yours, crinkling as you tell her something funny.
you payed attention to how her hand felt in yours,
a tight grip as if she never wanted to let go, forever wanting to be yours,
but her hand always let go,
and when your hand was empty,
you realized she never was yours to begin with.
but you never wanted to stop looking at her.

I was always told to not fall for the broken boy, but look where I am again. I've fallen for yet another piece of broken glass and I'll end up bleeding, getting cut up on his pieces, but there isn't a way for me to stay away.

most girls always have something simple and silly they're attracted to in a guy. their last names all start with S, they all have green eyes, brown hair. while I'm attracted to shattered. broken. lost.

maybe it seems like we both could put each other back together, but it's not that easy. this isn't a John Green book, a tumblr post, we both can't hug each other tight enough that our pieces will stick back together.

because guess what? they're sharp. and we're gonna get hurt.

me? capable of holding on? please.
I let go before it reaches two months.
I run away before I could ever possibly love someone as much as they could love me.
I used to think it was so easy for me to love,
but no.
it's not.
I will chase you.
chew you up.
make you think I'm head over heels for you,
kiss you until you're addicted,
then I'll spit you out,
heartbroken and confused.
I'm toxic and worthless.
I'm scared.
this is why I spend my days ******* around,
and I haven't even lost my virginity.
I'm toxic and worthless.
stay away from me, won't you?
because it may seem like they're the ones who hurt me,
but that's far from the truth.
I'm the ones who hurt them.

You fell for the worst possible girl you could ever fall for.
You fell for the girl who feels annoying in every situation, no matter what she is told.
You fell for the girl who wings her eyeliner so sharply you can't imagine her without it, but **** you want to.
You fell for the girl who teases you so terribly you're left breathless, no matter if you're inches from your cell phone screen or inches from her lips.
You fell for the girl who reuses cigarette packs, not only because she's underage and steals them, but because she feels naked without the beat up pack she's always owned.
You fell for the girl who digests the silly pop punk songs she listens to and rants about them until all she can think about is the Neck Deep lyric "I always pictured myself as being someone you'd miss."
You fell for the girl who refuses to meet you in the eyes because she sees the universe while she's not even the world.
How could you have fallen for her?

I used to think I was temporary.
in people's lives, in relationships, in everything.
I used to think I was as temporary as the flowers who only stay on the trees for a couple of weeks- beautiful, but only for a second.
beautiful & loved, but only until I fell apart, fell down.
I'm blooming again, but I don't want to be temporary.
I want what I become after the beauty passes to be as loved as it was before.
I can't do temporary anymore.
I need permanent.

another explicit photo to boost your self confidence,
another cigarette to fuel the craving of another person's lips on yours,
another breathy ****** to pretend that you matter.

i'm not perfect but i hope i'm still perfect for you, am i still perfect for you?