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.

I was wrongly convinced that if I set
myself on fire first, that it would
hurt far less when you
threw me into the
flames.

I was warned of the real dangers in the world.
From the risk associated with
small pills in doggy bags,
to the instability that comes from
a bottle bought from a corner store.
But no mother or teacher
ever cautioned me of the agony
that would hit me like a bullet
from a boy with brown hair
and hands that finally made my skin
feel like it fit my heavy bones.

The stretch marks that you left on your mothers thighs
will hurt her far less than the lines you will leave
on your suicide note.
Stop and think for a second.

Sitting on the cold roof of your ageing apartment, I could barely find a fresh breath of air while you abused smoke after smoke.

The taste of ***** so crisp on my tongue and yet it was you, that made me feel drunk.

I will never feel content with myself anymore, nor with the black ink that pours from my chest whenever I hear your name.

stand in the kitchen
with your arms on my waist
whilst pouring my thoughts
into your capable mind,
with no need of worrying
about who will clean
up the spilled soul
that remains on the tiles.

that my name, sounds so much sweeter when it rolls off your tongue.
I also understand that in a couple of years there will be a new girl sitting in your bedroom with the door locked, admiring the way you whisper
her name into her neck. But for now it is me, so please.
Say it again. "

The way that I let you shatter my chest
like a piece of glass.
or the way I would let you
do it all over again.

You poured your words down my throat
like acid that burned through the insides of my chest.
And it was not my ribs that pained me,
but my lips.
.
.
.
.
.
They stung with a desire to be kissed again.

Stop refreshing your messages.  He has not replied. He will not reply. Delete all his words. Just because he said he cared for you when he was drunk, doesn't mean he will remember when he is sober.

His darkness is so very bright
           that it's almost blinding.

that remains in this world.
Is slowly being destroyed.

One painful exam at a time.

Use the
hot water
to burn
his touch
off your
crying skin.

                                   Fog up
                                   the bathroom
                                   the same
                                   way that
                                   he fogged  
                                   up your
                                   unhinged mind.

                                                                         Drain your
                                                                         bathtub just
                                                                         as colours
                                                                         have drained
                                                                         from your
                                                                         bland existence.  

Pour water down the same patterns that his fingers drew on your spine.

Your mind is a map
that I want to spend
the rest of my life discovering.
I want to work my way
through every page
that you have ever created.
Know every street, road and alley
until I can navigate across your thoughts
like the inside of my home.

I remember so well when you broke my heart.
It was not passionate, or romantic, or anything like what the books described.
The park we sat in, was so quiet that the beats of my heart sent pulses along the ground and up to the branches of the trees above us.
I can still see the picnic rug when I shut my eyes. Lined blue and red, I ran my fingers across it, much like I used to your spine.
You spoke of your new girl, the way I wished you would speak of me.
Eleonora. You told me.
Your Ellie, Your Leo, Your Norie.
Although it was not this that had pained me.
It was what happened next.
It was the way you turned to me, with your ever fluorescent eyes
and asked me how I was.
It was the way I looked at you and lied.
"Good".

When some one asks you where your home is, do not say his name. Do not say anything. He should not be the place where you feel most safe because his two arms do not suffice for the four walls where you should feel content. If you are not happy with yourself, then you cannot be happy with him.

2. Sit on your roof. Even if it’s only once a week, once a month or once a year. Just sit there. Bring someone or go alone but do not sit there and stare at the stars wishing you were looking down from the sky. You needn't say, think or do anything for a short amount of time so spend it satisfied with your life.

3. If you would not say it to someone you love, do not let someone you love say it to you. You are just as precious as they are, maybe even more.

4. If you like the song, then listen to it again. and again. and once again. Listen to it until the words ring through your mind in the silence. Do not share it with anyone. It may become theirs and you do not want this. Listen to it again.

5. Wear your good shoes. Not the ones that look nice but make you sore. The ones that let you drop your responsibilities and run faster than you ever have before. No one likes the kid that spends the night complaining about their feet.

6. When someone breaks your heart, buy a plant. water it every time you cry and when it dies because you have drowned it, buy a new one.  After there are no tears left and you can finally care for your new plant, you will come to the realisation that although your tears can drown a shrub, they will never drown you. Once you fully understand this. You can finally blossom like the plant you deserve to be.

7. Never judge a book by a cover or a poem by it's title. Words can mean almost anything and sometimes, most shockingly of all. They lie.

You are the deepest wound on my scar covered arms.

You will wake to your coffee each morning,
      with three sugars instead of two,
            because you asked from in front of the mirror,
                  and still didn't see, what I saw.
                        On that day, I will hug you even tighter
                              and take the scales from the bathroom
                                    to smash them on the broken walls of society.

The air is caught in my lungs
and the sun in my eyes.
Songs that I have never heard
are playing so loud
that I know all the words.
There is so much air
in so little a space
that I cannot even breathe.
I forgot what I look like,
and the mirrors refuse to tell me.
We are moving so fast
that my world slows to a stop
and my skins burns
through my chest,
pouring acid over my heart.
Kiss me again.

They burnt the inside of my stomach,
as the butterflies begged to get out.
But they only travelled with the wind
as you refused to hold them.
As you refused to hold me.
How is it that the two of us can feel
so mind numbingly different,
when I only feel one thing for you.

Your palms.
Stained pink with all the things you touch,
but not stained of me.
My mind tangled with thousands of threads
all leading to your cheeks.
The books that you write
are filled with things that bring you happiness
yet you refuse to write of me.
My stories are filled with my joy
and all the pages simply of your name.
This makes it worse,
when you rip out the pages.

It was when you hurt me most
that I realised.
I no more,
wanted to be loved by you
but just be loved in general.