Since you took me to the ocean before,
Maybe this is one metaphor you might get.

Your words were like broken pieces of seashells.
They left cuts all over me.
And you are salt water,
You kept coming back,
To burn my wounds,
One tide after another,
One wave after another.
Periodic, unstoppable, predictable.
Like a natural phenomenon,
You can't seem to stop once you've started.
You had to make sure,
You've done enough destruction,
Before you would leave.

I can, however, walk away from the beach.
I can even leave the seashells behind.
I don't need them anyway.

I used to love oceans.
A little more before it started to hurt me.

i write poetry in fifty seconds or less
sometimes the words taste like salt
and sometimes like maraschino cherries

i wonder if my blood is red or if it's purple
because pain no longer feels like the color red,
it feels like numbness, cold unsaturated color.
red is diamond and fire and volcano
and it doesn't seem fair to call myself eruption.
it would be more accurate to say that i'm sand dune
and flood
and hurricane,
something that doesn't burn painfully
but slowly sinks into your skin
like water
until you breathe in what you thought was air,
but really it's not oxygen anymore,
it's me.

this one tasted like salt.

*(a.m.c.)

I'm incapable of love,
Incapable of feeling,
But Darling, please know that you are above,
Above everyone else. You're my King.

Mine.

im more than capable of jealousy,
The Green Beast grows inside of me.
He grows alongside the Black Barbarian
that thrives and feeds off Chaos and Strife
that takes pleasure in my Pain.

Mine.

I'm incapable of happiness,
Incapable of smiling for more than five minutes.
But Darling, please know that you're the source of my grin
The only one that can take away my despair...even if its for a little while.

Mine.

Baby, I'm more than capable of sadness,
its the only thing im good at.
the Blue Monster lets out a hearty laugh for every Drop that spills out of my leaking tap.
He sits on his throne beside his Comrades
Absorbing power like a Sponge.

Mine.

I can count on my fingers the boys with rough hands traveling up my skirt with their tongues down my throat that only knew how to destroy girls. I can close my eyes and see the girls with soft skin that smelt of cheap wine that spoke the sweetest words to me, but only wanted me as their secret or play toy.
I have started to self destruct, beating my fists on walls until they turn black and blue because I can no longer stand on my own with with these hollow bones and broken lungs.
I try and not think of you when the chorus picks up in that song or when the sun kisses the sky goodnight before it sleeps or when I'm staring at the bottom of the bottle but you're there you're there you're there
and there have been pills and pills and pills prescribed for my failing heart, but I've been smoking my cigarettes not giving a **** about the bomb about to go off inside me. My skin has become tighter around my chest, counting ribs like the days you'd told me you'd stay.
I fell for you again but I am always the other girl I am second I am last I am nothing
I find love in straight lines and giving away the parts of me that should only be for you or for me but my body is not a temple and you are not going to worship it, so why should I?
My first meal in weeks was a bottle of my moms prozac and I found myself behind the wheel driving past the bus stop where you first told me you loved me, not realizing what those three words meant to me. Why my foot pressed down on the gas and why I turned down your street will always make me question my sanity, but I closed my eyes until I heard sirens and your voice whispering my name.
I miss the comfort in your voice, but if you look at the moon and think of her too, leave me at the side of the road like so many before have because I am tired of being the other girl and I am tired of feeling trapped in three words that mean far too much to me.