He left her blue roses
To commemorate his love
Left her notes,
Telling her to notice him
When she didn't
People had to die
People who looked like the victim
Who deserved to survive
But not everything is perfect
When predators lurk in the night
He stalked her until her wounds had healed
Those three little marks
That she left on his brow
Marring him, molding him
Into the scar of a person
This stalker really is

darling, loving me is falling apart with octobers and kissing your poems goodbye. it is watching autumns unfold while slipping into the tracks of a freight train. i will kiss your skin, all chapped lips and sweetened cigarettes, my hands on your neck, as if feeling the walls of an athenian ruin. i will be every distinctive silhouette in a film, every line in a song, every secret spilling gracelessly off your lips before you catch yourself. i will set you on fire and you will burn; all wide-eyed and irises made of the storm, beneath my feather light touches.

i have a proclivity for breaking hearts and you will find yourself neck-deep in whirl of heartbreaks and headlights — all moonstruck and confused. i will break you — destroy you, bit by bit, in the most elaborate, exquisite way, that you will know one thing, darling —

chaos has a tendency to look beautiful.

Let's cut the crap and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We weren't made for romance and sappy poetries, weren't made for love songs, and cringey sweet nothings and gazing at the sunrise after camping out for the night on a hill. We were made to hold hands and a few almost-kisses during drinking sessions and forget about it the next day, to smoke and lie down a little bit too close to each other on rooftops and talk about depression and anxiety attacks, and deny everything in the morning. We were made for my unsaid "I miss you too's", that want to escape my lips the moment you say your drunken "I miss you's". We were made to see each other break down in between a pack of cigarettes and two bottles of local ***. We were more like two ****** up souls recognizing each other; more like two faultlines causing an earthquake and taking everything down with them, more like the first raindrops to fall apart before a thunderstorm, like two planets out of orbit crashing on each other in a brief but destructive way.

You see, maybe we're just drawn to people similar to us, and maybe, we're just drawn to each other because we're equally messed up. Maybe it was just the strong urge to save the other that borderlined to romance. But I guess being messed up wears people out, and sometimes I find myself wondering who got exhausted first. Where did the talks about "wanting to die together" go? When did the conversations about our saddest secrets cease? What stopped "Man, loving you is a disaster I won't mind being struck by," from coming? Was I too depressive and sad for you? Were my breakdowns suffocating? Did my fuckedupness stop feeling like home and started looking just plain ****** up? When did you start fading away? Why would you do that? Stupid questions.

You should know, it beats the **** out of me to say it, but I was perhaps a little bit desperate for you to stay. Perhaps I got too comfortable with your demons, I almost adopted them as mine. Perhaps the fact that you were willing to give me your ******-up all was comforting. Perhaps I was selfish, and I kinda wanted my darkness to be the only darkness you'll wanna light. Perhaps I miss you and it feels like I'm a chainsmoker on withdrawal from her cigarettes, and what ***** more is that I don't even know if I still cross your mind as that same sad girl you were happy being sad with, as that same sad girl who had always been your destination, and the very same one you apparently stopped coming to. And perhaps, thinking about all of these is *******. We weren't some modern-day knight and damsel. You weren't the guy with the beautiful blue eyes, and I'm not the girl with the blue washed denim they sing about. We were just misfits who made a mess out of the messed ups we already are, as if that isn't already enough. We were just planes thrown in the air, hoping to land, but ending up crashed and burnt. And that's how it always worked for people like us.

I was never worn out by your sadness as much as I was worn out by mine. And clearly, you were my favorite messed up, but, you're just not worth it anymore. And this — this is a just an unpoetic musing about the wrecks that we are, an impulsive attempt of detoxifying you out of my system. This — this is me, disowning your sadness; this is me disowning your demons. So let's just cut the drama and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We were the almost-but-not-quite's, the could've-beens, and the never were's. We weren't the kind that bags the happily ever after. We weren't the kind that makes it.

All we are is everything short of lovers. All we're made for is everything short of I love you's. And this is everything short of love.

There was something bittersweet about tangling my arm with yours as we finally crossed (or zigzagged through) the lines that had been blurred for quite awhile now. It was nowhere near a fairytale. Maybe it was something about you being the most beautiful, saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and maybe it was me being drawn to everything sad. Maybe all we had been is a cocktail of alcohol, terminal loneliness, and pent up ****** tensions, brewed somewhere between these nicotine-scented sheets and a series of bad decisions. It’s not love, just wanton desire, I’d say. And you’d agree in the mid of hitched breaths and sloppy kisses. And that was the last thing in our minds before we fumble over the zippers and get lost in each other’s uncharted skin.

Of course deep down, we know that you’re everything that’s bad for me, and that I’m not the type to stay naked in bed the morning after the night to make you pancakes. But the way your lips drugged mine into kissing back, the way we said things we’ll never say when we’re sober, the way there was suddenly too much clothes and too huge gaps between our bodies all seemed comforting and sinfully magical. Of course deep down, we know that we’ll never stand a chance out there doing real-life romance; I wasn’t the one you were looking for, and you were just somebody I found.  But right now, in this cramped apartment with leaky ceilings and creaky floors, all I wanna do before sanity rushes back give in to "**** this", make all the wrong choices, and self-destruct with you.

I have a bad habit
of falling for
messed up people.
Maybe it’s because
my own sadness
recognizes theirs.

So darling, let's fall in love

and apart.

lost souls don't end up in asphodel meadows, honey —
they end up in your apartment;
a messy, poorly-lit place.
or so i did.
our systems filled
with nicotine and other bad ideas
i will for sure regret.

well, truth be told,
you're mine to regret.

well truth be told,
you're not.

but there we were,
flung in a den of frenzied kisses —
skin next to a black hole,
a black hole next to a skin
guess we'll never know which is who.
but tonight break me —

we both know this isn't your
watching-sunset-and-gazing-at-stars
type of love.

so tonight stain me,
and i'll call it a pseudo-romance, darling
and maybe after,
we can smoke cigarettes
or watch the city fall asleep
or stare at each other's empty eyes;
maybe somehow that's more of our style
darling, than staring at the sunrise is.

but at this moment i know,
in this poorly-lit place,
dripping roofs,
***** sinks,
that i will waste my words writing
beautiful poetry for you,
even if i'm not that beautiful myself.

even if you're not that beautiful yourself.

even if we're not that beautiful ourselves.

writing you poems feels like relapsing into self-destruction