What is what it seems?
("What?" is) My thoughts? The wind? Anti-aging creams?
All things, like onions, can be peeled.
To inner essences my being's kneeled.

Every time he looks at me
I see cracks in his eyes that remind me
Of the only word I’ve ever truly known:
Hope.

He is so prepared to lay himself out at my altar,
Plunge the dagger into his ****** chest,
Bleed onto my statues.
I will not,
I can not,
do the same.

They call me monster behind closed doors.
How can I do that to someone?
How can I let them yearn and pine without giving them a chance,
A chance to be the apple to my eye,
the moon to my tide,
and every cliche in between?

He thinks I can just kiss his scars away.
That my bruised and swollen love can heal his hurt.
But I can’t be his savior and mine.
I will always come first.

She is making love to the music,
She is making love to the stage.
She is blue and purple and red.
She is a lipstick stain,
A songstress,
She has aged a hundred years.

Her voice rings out,
Clear and soulful,
Over the static of the others.
The microphone is her battle axe
And I’ve never seen
Such a beautiful fight.

There’s cuts on my knuckles that I don’t remember getting
And a hole in the wall hiding love letters inside.
I lay in the middle of a sea
Of broken records.
Tears shed off my cheeks like chips of paint.
I am manic,
I am antidepressants.
I am dry heaving into the fist sized hole in the wall.
I am falling asleep
And I am never waking up.

There’s a dominance in his hands.
He has more power in one knuckle than I do in my whole body.
I hang on his bones like stretched out clothing,
He has lost a lot of weight.
I pray at the altar
Laid out at his feet.
I wash away the blood and drink
From the bowl.
He presses his lips to the back of my neck,
Sings me a lullaby.
I don’t understand this power,
This black magic.
My heart is now kindling.
He warms his dominant hands over my smoke.

I’m trying to kick this bad habit,
This lazy habit,
This lay in bed all day,
Drink nothing but spit habit.
This nonexistence habit.
This nail bite habit.
This cry for no reason habit,
This cry for every reasons habit.
I’m trying to twist this bad habit into art.
I’m trying to drown this bad habit in poems.
I’m trying to drown myself in poems.

This bad habit is me,
I am this bad habit.

It’s the hardest to break.

My fingers weren’t made for fixing things.
I am an object of destruction.
Don’t get me wrong,
I am not deadly.
I’m a vegetarian, I recycle.
I just break everything I touch.
I am a backwards Midas.
These mausoleum museum hands
Are what destroyed Pompeii.
The Roman colosseum crumbled under my feet.
I rip every heart I hold
And bite every mouth I kiss.
I am a benign hurricane.
I cause enough damage to inconvenience you
But not enough to **** you.
I am messy and dangerous,
A giant desperately trying to be gentle.
Proceed with caution
Because i cant fix what I break
No matter how much I would like to.

The truth is that I love you, and that
I always will. Helpless and hopeless
romantics dream of love like this. For
the longest of times, I dreamt of the
perfect lover. I wondered how much
sweeter life would be if I found myself
in the arms of the man I love. The longer
I waited and every mishap along the way
led me straight to you. I, now, yearn for
the passionate kisses you place upon my
lips. I live for your steady breaths that
give my restless soul peace. Hearts like
yours are the reasons why I remained a
believer.  Your warmth never goes astray,
and your faith gives me strength. Although
each heart withholds the same amount of
adoration, theirs will never be like yours.

Awakened to *******.
A man's misconstrued idea of what a woman needs to do.

His misery, he slowly found comfort. He tried
to **** me into an everlasting hole of darkness
for as long as I can remember. And I refused
to cave.

Never would I diminish the joy in my soul for a man
like you. There is no comfort in mediocrity, better known
as you.

For the last time, I
solemnly swear that I will never give my energy
to a man's wants and needs. I come first.
And I always will.