I never thought
the words you’d say
would be someone else’s

your smiles, lies
open ended promises,
love turned disguises,
heartache and prizes.

last words said too late.
new ones said so early.

i’m beginning to think
your love for me was
just you in a hurry—

destination: her.
me, nothing but her seat warmer.

"You suffocate me. while I stare at your belongings on the wall, I lay in this bed made of heartache. The silence is deafening while I think of you over,  and over again.

They claim I’ve been suffering from some type of sickness, they’re right, although it’s a whole other kind of sickness. A sickness created in the middle of the night, faster than the blink of an eye. A decaying body, infested with the words that you used to sing to me, I watch as the maggots crawl over me, filling the gaps within my useless heart.

The melancholy in this heavy fog of nostalgia that I feel is relentless, I try and scurry away like a mouse, but unfortunately I wasn’t fast enough, the trap you set for me has definitely broken my neck by now. I can’t say my death is peaceful, because I’m absolutely and completely suffering from you. They all want to know why I want to leave, why be so quick and careless, I can’t help but immediately think of you, these walls are drenched in memories of you, I can’t help but wish to paint over them like I have tried so many times before, but it is of no use, the fresh paint will dry as fast as these rolling tears upon my cheek, and soon chip away.
Slowly chipping away my sanity the way you chipped away my walls to let you in. I let you in, just for you to paint over my luminescent walls with black tar.

I’m forever stained now by your hands, breath, looks, even voice. It seems there is no escaping you, after all this time I still see you laying in my bed, driving around this ghost town, eating the same food I would. It hurts more and more. I don’t have a home anymore, for this place that should be a home is desolate, with only memories.

I’m not alive anymore, I’ve been dead for a long time, living is being in the present and moving on, I live in memories, memories of us. Forgetting the world when I was with you was as easy as breathing, and now all I can focus on now is the world, thinking all the time of how you and I were supposed to be in it together, instead we are separated by irrelevant words. I know you’re hurting too, but in a different way, you don’t sit and watch the clouds go by feeling the pain in the back of your throat when you’re holding back tears of pain. That is all I am now, in pain, suffering."

relationships aren't always 50/50 on give and take.
sometimes you need to pick it up for the other person,
and they do the same to you.
but lately it feels like i need you 80, and you need me way more than 20.
and i don't know how much more of me i have to give.

i feel like i'm disappearing.

let me forgive you
so you can hurt me again

you have dealt with her damnation for far too many centuries. one day, you dare yourself to reach up and stroke her obsidian cheeks with tired, burnt fingertips. you look into her sable eyes and search for what they used to be—two bright citrine stones, young and benevolent, disappearing behind her honey-glazed grin as you wander over every mountain and through every desolate valley that graced her naked anatomy—but that girl is gone now, isn't she?

you breathe her in and she spits you out. she laughs as your skeleton crumples at her feet. she picks up your tibia and uses it to pluck the dead souls from her teeth, all except for yours. [even in this dark red light, she looks nothing less than holy.] she tortures and berates you, sets fire to your skin, yet she refuses to pluck the stars from your irises—tell me, boy, why does she still let you shine in a world shrouded by despair?

sometimes her touch isn't scalding against your flesh, sometimes you don't flinch when she runs her sharpened claws down the length of your spine. sometimes she presses greek tragedies into your tongue—you cannot tell if she loves the taste of desperation, or the fact that she still brings you to your knees.

you cry because you love it, too.

he is a tattered heart with blood-stained teeth. he needs you to be silk sheets and a pink sunrise, but you are neither of those things. rather, you are canvas constructed of guilt and hot desire. he ruins his ****** hands down your neck, your *******, your thighs. you learn to love the taste of all the hurt he's caused because it's

all for you.

he needs you to be a proper woman, strong and dignified with rose petal cheeks and a bounteous womb, but you are nothing more than a glutton, consuming every spewed whimper born through impatient fingers grasping at his royal bones. you dig your nails into his flesh, you burn constellations into his back, you make sure his eyes are closed.

you are nothing that he needs, but you are everything right now. you wear the revelation like a drunken king adorns a crown: with pride, with arrogance, without feeling its weight. you straddle his waist and sink onto a throne made for a worthier queen. there is red hot blood in his veins, golden ichor in yours—you are not of the same world. the stars rattle when he breathes your name.

they die out when he considers how you are not the one they should be burning for.