kissing boys with long hair
at parties that smelt like bad decisions,
and surviving on liquor so strong
that I would forget my own name,
simple to try and remove that awful taste
you left in my mouth.

He looked at me with eyes
that stabbed my chest.
                                                       "Sometimes it's not the guns,
                                                           ­                                                that **** you."
He said,
and then those eyes,
the ones that stabbed my chest,
filled with tears
                                                           ­     "Sometimes it's the goodbyes."

And kid, no one is going to pick you up
from the tiles of the bathroom floor,
with wrists stained the colour of
your mothers favourite lipstick.
Imagine if she saw you now.
So stop waiting for them,
and stand the **** up,
because who ever said
that you couldn't do it alone.

with laces that were as tangled
as the words that slipped from my lips
when I tried to tell you how I felt.

that honesty was the best kind of poetry.
So here it is. My kind of poetry
but your kind of honesty.
I am so
infinitely,
undeniably,
irresponsibly,
head of heels in love with you.

the way your arm would wrap around me
like a snake with a mouse.
I was never really certain if you were going to
embrace me
or
crush me to an oblivion.