Upon the eve of my demise I was so enchanted
that I could not quite surmise what my mind spied.
Moments later I grew surprised as I realized it was you
My darling, my dear, my sweet. I know you, though you may deny
the old sorrow by which we cried. Upon this play you've cast,
upon my life our souls intertwined.  and eventually your breath too.

A poem of love, or so I am told, is the greatest cure for this willow.
A moment of sorrow, or so I am told, is the medicine I do seek.
A lifetime of regret, I require to ****, as I weep into this pillow.
A hand of warmth, is all I asked, as my spirit begins to grow meek.

I am caught up in anxiety
It’s something that haunts me daily
A tightness in my chest
Because of the things I know
Everything moving in circles
Nothing permanent
And the love stained in my heart
Will fade
And grow again
But the pain in my chest
Won’t fade
Nor grow

The butterflies have fled.
In their stead rides an endless army
Through the valley of my insides
Raging, pillaging, burning
No mercy

that's all we have
before i leave for months.
one more chance
to make us "us"

i admit, i'm nervous
for failure- for a mistake.
what if i don't look right,
or i mumble, or i shake?

but i guess we'll see
what starts or ends.
will we be a couple,
or just stay friends?

Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies.
They keep soaring.
They glide beautifully, slowly.
But with your approach, they reach a frenzy.
I try to stop them.
Put them in a net.
Shove them in a jar.
Throw them out of my eyes.
And have them tumble far.
But they glide beautifully. Slow.
They flutter frantically when you're close.
I shout at them. Scream.
Beg them to be quiet.
Viciously try to suppress their riot.
They won't listen. No matter what I do.
They just keep trying to fly to you.
Then they're still.
For that second.
Then you touch me.
And they dance, sing - go crazy.
They fly our through my eyes and into yours.
So when I finally look up, slowly,
your eyes are glowing.

I already feel sick, thinking of seeing you,
spending the night with you
and not even being able to really be with you
3 months still to go.
but I really want to go, and I can't let you hold me back
you're always holding me back,
from trusting, from loving from falling
3 months still to go.
what will I feel, what will I say, will I be able to read you
like you've always been able to read me.
I want to touch you, my body craves you
but I know you're not mine for the taking.
3 months still to go
they ask me if I can do this, I smile and say yes
yet I've never been more unsure in my life.
you were my person, you were my happiness
and you left me so empty, how could I ever move on...
3 months still to go...

See, my hands do this thing
when I'm nervous
bored
upset.
They tend to play,
to pinch and wiggle,
to rub my clothing together.
I bounce pencils,
I click pens.
And, please,
don't even get me started on
tapping.
Now, these are all bad habits,
carried out, unnoticed, by
restless hands.
But my favorite bad habit
is running my fingers through your hair
or maybe down your arm
or holding your hands.
But they aren't bad habits,
not then.
In those few moments,
my hands are doing
Exactly
what I want them to.

My hands are ******* shaking-
As if this is the worst thing I've done-
I'm just typing in a number.
It's a ****** number and I'm-

I'm losing my mind like
"Doctor, what the hell is wrong with me?"
Like I don't wanna know because this *******...
This ******* can diagnose me.

So I'm ******* shaking until I have to sit down
And deciding everything I have to censor
Because I'm going to hire this Psychiatrist as a friend
But my brain is all warning lights and cries of "ENEMY"

And I've got nightmares thinking about talking about
About anything with substance. Anything I care about
Because it'd take one wrong word in the thick of emotion
For me to be labeled and I've already done that

I don't need another ******* label.

But self-therapy never did me any good and I've got enough bad
And all my therapists were money grubbing shitbags
So I'm going to buy a label from a psychiatrist
With my fingers crossed that I'll get a bottle of complimentary pills

I'm choosing the lesser of two evils that both turn my stomach
***** it, because I've already been ******* by therapy
And even if the psychiatrist is just as bad
It's not like any of them got **** on how I ******* me.

Here we are again
Nervous energy trembles
Finally alone.