Perfumed bedsheets,
Canvas the colour of her smile;
They'd become a cliche,
But he found
Even that
Was a masterpiece.

I still get a little dizzy when u kiss me;
Like the world turns a little faster;
Tilts a little more on its axis -
As our lips touch.
So time for you
                           and time for me
passes slower.
As the rest of the world watches;
I am left feeling a little out of spin;
A little out of sync;
And a little more in love.

It looks like a ****** scene
when you look inside my mind
The blood stains are so obscene
The floor is hard to find

Wood splinters and stubbed toes
Cold winters from broken windows
Slammed doors, the noise is constant
Mystery tours of the messy conscious

Another day, always stressed
It sounds cliche but I'm depressed
My emotions are constantly bottled up
One of these days they will erupt

isn’t it lovely?
the pain so inspiring
the grief in her eyes strikes passion in our hearts
the terror in her stance makes it so much more compelling
there is beauty in her struggle
there’s something gorgeous about the disaster
she breaks so stunningly
they paint portraits of her demons
they glorify her greatest fear
they heal her just to see her crack
break her, heal her
for all those who see her
just to see the exquisite suffering
of her past
to bring it back to the present
to keep it into the future
it makes us feel better about ourselves.
“oh, how horrible” we coo
as we trace delicate fingers down her horrified expression
we like to pity others
before they ever think to pity us.

the art of smooth handwriting eludes me &
i scribble silent letters
distracted by
boldly loud ones
onto the lines of a page,
emotions and confessions i will
turn in for class, my heart
out, &
where the teacher will
ultimately return it,
confusion marked
on the pages in red ink
and
my thoughts will be half understood
half appreciated and
half loved;
characterized by nothing more than luck,
who chose,
blindfolded
which thoughts deserved to be seen and
which ones would be
lost in translation,
from my head to the paper
existing clearly in my mind
yet appearing as hieroglyphics-
and i have yet to find my rosetta stone

Blackout blinds and ditzy drunk, I lost
My breath it tangled with your fairy lights
Words like ripped petals collapsed, sad,
On your sheets and we are such teenage cliches
I cried about him one more time when I got home

It felt like the moon, fuzzy and good, you said
I was telling the truth but the vermouth
Hinted I was lying just a little and I was
Undressed to my bra watching fake plastic stars
Swimming in positive vibrations from your speaker
Thanking you for caring

We weren't ****** but we acted like crackheads and still
I cried about him one more time when I got home
The solar system came full circle, it wasn't
Solipsisim anymore, I'm not alone
It's not a simulation I really am hungover
And very glad to be a part of your universe.

The Kekropolis you built.
Just thinking about you makes me feel odd.
You always come as a psyop,
implemented and fake.
I scream a thousand voices to you.
Every time i see you, my knees clutch.
You are not for real.
I mustn't speak.
There are others here, on my mind, on my paper.
Leaving behind a ****** trail of despair and sadness.
I won't let it affect me.

I'd scream again if i knew you were here.
Not involved in psyops.
Not connected to cops.
Not handling guys.
Not wearing disguise.

I'd care if it wasn't all artificially implemented,
I'd come hadn't you texted.
The deep state of a messed-up.

It's a cliche, the way past lovers always come back around
as if it's written on my skin that I tend to forgive more freely than I should
as though they are checking in just to see if I'm still waiting
hours, days, months spent shoving their name down my throat
to convince myself the ending was mutual
and then one day, long after the waiting turned into progressing
they have the audacity
to ask if I'm still anticipating their realization that they 'loved me all along'
to ask if I still want them, because suddenly they feel alone
suddenly they need me
but I am taking every step in the opposite direction of you
I am worth more than a second-thought, than the regret you feel from walking away