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.

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.

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.

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 was fighting a war with my mind, I made a blade my weapon & my skin became the battlefield.

maybe i’m so scared of being cheated on because she kept it a secret for years and we believed it
(please don’t keep secrets from me, i know when you do)
maybe i’m so scared of being lied to because i believed every lie that came out of her mouth and when the truth came out i broke
(please don’t lie to me, i know when you do)
maybe i flinch at raised voices because yelling meant a fight and a fight meant running away (please don’t scream at me unless you’re screaming honesty, i need you to)
it’s eating me up inside and i’m becoming nothing while knowing nothing
maybe you don’t need me
(i don’t need me, too)

I just really want to kiss you, not miss you

i hope you miss how i read in the car on our road trips,
how i gave you a hush and a smirk when you talked as i read an interesting paragraph.
i hope you miss looking for me in your concert crowds,
how you raised your eyebrows and saw me laugh,
singing along,
your biggest fan out of everyone in the tiny room.
i hope you miss my kiss,
my touch,
my ****.
i hope you miss how it drove you wild,
‘cause i sure as hell know it did.
i hope you miss my breathy moans on your mouth,
how i dig my nails in your back.
i hope you miss me like i miss you,
because i want to go back to you,
but i know i can never do that.

I want it to hurt,
and maybe if I wish hard enough,
it will.

running around the basement of a house i’ve never been,
i don’t think i’ve ever felt so content.
high on strong ****,
buzzed on ****** beer,
the bump of cymbalta taking its effect on my brain.
happiness is surging through my veins,
and everything seems all right.
underage ******* clinging onto the person i love more than anything,
so i lock my lips with his,
a giant “*******” to each girl who wants more than to hear his music.
60 mg of happy drugs running through my system,
i’ve never felt more content.
my best friends at my side,
the love of my life singing his heart out on a makeshift stage,
and everything seems to be okay.

i promised myself i would never again become addicted to another’s touch,
but here i am lonely bed passed midnight,
only wanting you to trace your fingers up my thigh again.
only needing you to touch me again.

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.

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.

i wanna fall in love again
look at the stars and hold someone’s hand again
i wanna be loved again
feel like someone’s world’s again
i wanna be wanted again
be less of a burden and more of a relief again

I'm so not okay.
stop forgetting all the nasty things you tell me,
like "*******" or "selfish *****".
I'm so not okay.  
my throat is dry because I can't cry and my stomach is sore because I can't eat.
I'm so not okay.
I want someone to love me, but the only thing I am to another is a *** toy.
I'm so not okay.
I'm an entire year behind in school and I have to fake being all right to make sure I finish all my classes before next year.
I'm so not okay.
maybe another bruise or another cut would make me okay.

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.

he kissed her so passionately, her moans escaped onto his lips. as soon as he stopped, she pulled him back to him and kissed him as if he was the oxygen she needed to breathe.
she only ever felt alive when she was touching him.

holding a new hand after 3 years of the same familiar fingers curled around mine is a concept i never would have thought i needed to master.
his hand isn’t yours;
his fingers don’t meet mine like yours did,
but holding his hand makes me feel wanted,
something you never made me feel these last few months.
i’m always going to love you,
but i think i’m starting to fall in love with a new hand grasping hold of mine.

i want your bad days to become my bad days and our bad days become our good days.
i want to fall asleep to your kiss at night and wake up to you pulling me closer in the morning when we should both be getting out of bed.
i want your hand on my thigh during car rides,
i want you to sing whatever song is playing through your car’s speakers,
tapping your fingers on my skin to the beat.
i want your lips in my hair as you pull me into you on a chilly day,
using each other for warmth.
i want to hold your hand through grocery stores, parks, the mall, new cities we explore.
i just want to hold your hand.
i want to feel your smile on my lips when i kiss you,
as if kissing me is the best thing you could ever possibly experience.
i want you and i’m not ashamed of it anymore.

what did i get myself into
to fall for someone like you

you made me think not being called beautiful by someone who’s supposed to think i am was normal it wasn’t normal

it hurts me to know that you can see my heart being shattered and how little i do not care.
it hurts me to know that you’re picking up the pieces and storing them away when i could fix it myself but refuse to.
it hurts me to know that i’m pretending to be blind in fear of losing someone i’ve already lost.

you don't even bother trying anymore.

if you look up the definition of “bipolar” in the dictionary, you’d find my mom’s name screaming loud and proud in big fat letters.
you can say you’re bipolar all you want,
think it’s a cute ******* self diagnosed disease you can use to explain your mood swings,
but you will never understand how terrifying it is.
when from one moment you can hold your mom’s hand and watch movies with her,
the next she’s screaming that she’s going to **** herself, a knife turning her knuckles white.
bipolar disorder isn’t a rom com where the sick gets better in a nice little mental hospital,
it’s a horror film filled with blood spatter scenes and a not so happy ending.
but the scariest part of it is that when you check the definition again,
you’ll slowly start to see my name appear.

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.

sometimes i miss you,
but then i realize that i was just an awful person to be friends with,
as were you.
i never kept stories straight,
afraid to tell the truth about my family after i opened up to you and you judged me,
so then i tried to keep quiet.
but it just resulted in things i could never explain well enough for you to understand.
i don't miss the person you are.
you are damaged,
and toxic,
and lost,
but i am too,
and maybe two toxics cant be mixed.
i don't miss the person you are,
i miss the memories,
and being able to call you a best friend,
but i don't miss you.
the more days past,
the more i wish it wasn't you who i shared all the memories with.

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.

I watched my mind float up into the clouds one day, just as I was chewing on my pen during class.
1:06pm, one hour and thirty four minutes until I was out,
but my head had other ideas instead of working out the problems on my math assignment.
My mind bounced and swam and floated through the clouds, looking for whatever memory it could find of you before you were completely gone.
It got glimpses of your dark eyes in the sky,
glimpses of your lips leaning in closer to meet mine and
I swear the pain of the memory made me cry out "come back, come back!"
But it kept digging deeper, looking closer, until I could smell the husky scent of you, a mix of pine, and old car.
I dug my fingernails into my palm, but the pain was replaced by the feel of your arms wrapped around me.
Come back.
The next thing I know it was still 1:06pm, there were dents in my palm, and you were gone.

“please tell me how the **** i’m supposed to deal with losing you.”

you should have told me you were seeing someone again.
(did i really need to?)
you promised me. i ******* trusted you.
(your first mistake.)
******* for making me ******* think/
******* for taking my trust and ******* on it.
i hope he’s better than me.
(he wasn’t.)
i hope you’re ******* happy and you don’t miss me.
(i am but that doesn’t mean i don’t miss you.)
you never ******* cared.
i won’t ever forgive you for this.
(did you forgive me?)
you never cared like i did.
that’s over now.
(i cared more than you know.)
next time have the ***** to say it instead of making someone think there’s something when there isn’t.
(i told you i was toxic.)
don’t just push them away until they realize by themselves.
i thought you were different.
(i wasn’t different! why was i different?)
i heard your voice, you didn’t care.
(being numb is a strange feeling.)
tell me to go away, say we are done.
(we were after you did this.)
you were never my friend. you wouldn’t be like this if you were.
(i’m toxic.)
you aren’t the same. you used to care and be so sweet.
(a person can’t change in a month.)
i deserve better than this.
(you deserve way better than me.)
i wanted to give you everything.
i wanted to ******* take care of you and help you. i wanted to give you all of my time and energy and love and i would have done anything for you.
(i don’t know if that’s true. no one can give another all that.)
you need to ******* get yourself okay because you’re just gonna keep hurting people.
does he know that you’re gonna hurt him?
(he hurt me.)
you’re my death cup now.

/texts received after i said i needed space.

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

I can scream from the top of my lungs at the highest point in our city,
where my voice will echo throughout the buildings,
"I love you" bouncing from east to west,
and right back to us,
wrapping themselves around the teenage bodies that hold angst, and lust, and love,
but most importantly hope,
the hope that taught me life was worth the late night fights from parents who need a long overdue divorce,
it's worth the headaches masking the buried worry that sits deep in my chest,
it's worth the tears that shed late at night when the demons come out to play only be wiped away from you.
it's worth it all,
because I know you'll be there to make me smile when there's nothing to smile about.

sometimes i still think that i will end up killing myself.
maybe that’s not a bad thing,
maybe these deadly thoughts filling my mind in the middle of the night is just fate telling me it’s the way i need to go.
maybe it’s how i balance out the universe.
i’ll run my finger along the bright blue veins on my wrist,
calluses getting caught on what seems like a million scars,
and maybe i’ll start to pretend that i opened up my skin again.
maybe a smile will creep up into my face when i think about what songs would play at my funeral,
an eerie message whispering to me that i do not belong here.
maybe the universe should be telling me to keep loving him,
to plan our wedding,
to plan our future,
and wedding bells do sing in the back of my mind,
but the idea that he’s not happy anymore sings louder.
the idea that i should give up before my heart gets torn out of my chest screams so loudly i feel like i’m going deaf.
maybe drowning a bottle of pills,
or wrapping my Malibu around a tree
is still written at the top of my Christmas wish list,
and i still wonder if these thoughts are fate’s way of telling me i do not belong here.

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

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.

don’t you ever dare say you didn’t expect it.
when i finally crash my car into a tree,
take a few extra pills with a bottle of *****,
or trace the blue veins on my wrist with knife,
don’t you dare say you didn’t expect it.
don’t say i was beautiful.
don’t say i was okay.
because i screamed i wasn’t so many ******* times,
and yet you still left me crying on the floor,
wanting sleep more than for me to feel better.

No swallow of a prescribed pill,
no inhale of sickly sweet nicotine,
no drowned shot glass,
will make me forget the pain that latched its way onto my skin
when you left without a warning.

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 have been thrown away so many times that you all are just enjoying digging through the ******* trying to find pieces you want to like

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.

You used to always tell me goodnight,
now you won't even tell me hello.

i always asked you to take me to the museum,
just so i can look at everything that fascinates me.
but you never took the time to take me there,
to do something with me that i’ve always wanted to do.
you never took the time to make me happy with a simple $9 ticket and time spent with me on a saturday afternoon.

i met him for the first time,
and he held my hand smiling and laughing at me as i showed him everything that interested me.
giddy and as carefree as a child,
that’s all i’ve ever wanted.
to be brought to a place that i enjoy with a person that i enjoy,
but i guess seeing me happy wasn’t on your to do list in this lifetime.

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?

Have you ever noticed
that the only place
something white
isn't useful
is in a crayon box?

Where black
is our most
favorite color
to touch?
Always adding
something,
somewhere?

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.

i am so tired of this body i made my home in.
i wish i could rip it to shreds,
cut it into a million little pieces just to stitch it back together something new,
a new broken frame glued back together.
i wish every one of your kisses made feel beautiful again,
but instead of sending every self hatred fueled demon away,
your kiss just makes me feel worthless and used,
a burden you keep around because you like how i ****.
i am so tired of this body i made my home in,
a used shell that i wish i could throw into the ocean for another creature to find solace in.

hungry and wanting,
our bodies move in the rhythm that we have learned to master in the short years of loving one another.
skin on skin,
uneven and shaky breathing,
fingernails clawing into your back,
your hand around my throat.
our bodies collide in an all too familiar fashion,
but the feeling is still so new and so fresh,
every moan that escapes our lips feels like the experience of watching the sun dip into the horizon,
beautiful and colorful and wild.
i don’t think any poem will remaster what we do behind closed doors,
but every word escaping my pen will try to tell the story of loving you touch by touch.

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.