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"The number you have dialled
Is  no longer in service."

How those words
Rung in my head
When you had left;
It hurt

How it lingered
On my tongue,
The tongue that once knew
Your name; so familiar

You were that number
And you had disappeared
Appeared once in my life
To leave and never come back

You were like a soul
Wandering,
Searching,
Losing her way

You thought that
You found your light --
The light that you needed--
In me

How foolish was I?
To believe that we --
In the hopes of forever --
were something permanent

"The number you have dialled"
Those words that came from my mouth
"Is no longer in service"
Are words that are, now, out of my reach

Never to return;
Never to reappear;
Never to exist

Not once more.

----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------
"How are you?" she had asked. I answered her with the words that lingered in my mind. Because, just like you, I was no longer in reach
Pimple popping
Lathered deodorant
Awkward tampons
Hair in unwanted places
Drunken nights
Failed hangover cures
Flunked classes
Broken hearts
First kisses and first times
Rebounds
Hookups
Hickeys
Rushes of frustration
These are all
unglamorous occasions
Of a not so florescent
Adolescence
If your an Arctic Monkey's fan, I hope you enjoyed the title :)
I knew that if I
let the blood run dry
from the slit you left
on my wrist
I'd be free.
I tried to fix you,
Because that's what I do.
I look for imperfections and cracks.
And as I tried to put your pieces
Back together, I
Noticed that I was
Slowly
Chipping away.
I am more broken than you.
Instead of putting you back
together, I should have been
saving myself.
Perhaps it was cowardice
that made me this brave.

I’m addicted to it now;
to courage in its liquid form.

The dry drag of depression
salts my tongue with sand.
My hands tremble in fear
when my teeth can’t clatter
around the hard A in alcohol.
So I drink my fill of courage.

Perhaps it is cowardice
that keeps me this brave.
I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

— The End —