I don’t love you anymore.

I love hot cups of coffee, and cold cups as well. I love feeling summer grass between my toes. I love long showers. I love curling my hair until it frames my face with red vines of ivy. I love my bed in the morning, before the sun peeks through my curtains. I love petting dogs as I pass them in sidewalks. I love eye contact with pretty strangers in coffeeshops and bookstores. I love the echo of an acoustic guitar in a small room. I love trying new food that my mother didn’t cook when I was a kid. I love the one dress that makes me feel beautiful. I love the voice of the skinny English kid in the concert venue. I love fireflies in the summer. I love fireplaces and afghans and good books. I love red lipstick. I love the dozens of empty notebooks stockpiled in my house. I love maps and I love globes. I love doing kind things for strangers to see them smile. I love comfortable sweaters. I love baking desserts. I love drinking more coffee.

I don’t love you anymore.

~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!


SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015

“I like you for your intelligence and beauty.”
2. “I’m not saying I have doubts. I don’t.”
3. “You can trust me.”
4. “I’m sorry.”
5. “You’re beautiful.”
6. “We should take it slow.”
7. “I’m sorry that I keep leaving you.”
8. “I appreciate you.”
9. “I’m sorry.”
10. “Just be you.”
11. “I just really want this to work.”
12. “I’m sorry.”
13. “I’m glad that you’re happy.”
14. “Did I say something wrong?”
15. “I just need my little piece of freedom.”
16. “See you tomorrow, my love.”
17. “I wish I was there for you.”
18. “I really enjoy holding your hand.”
19. “You looked really pretty today.”
20. “Today I accidentally wrote your name when I was supposed to be writing about something else.”
21. “I just feel constricted, that’s all.”
22. “I got your back.”
23. “I want you to do what makes you happy.”
24. “I can’t wait to see you.”
25. “I love your smile. I love your eyes. I love your face.”
26. “If it moves quickly, everything will crash and burn.”
27. “I’m sorry.”
28. “Good morning, beautiful.”
29. “I wish I had more time off for you.”
30. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
31. “I’m sorry.”
32. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
33. “If you need me, I’m here.”
34. “I wish I could be with you right now so I could hold you in my arms.”
35. “You’re a good person.”
36. “I don’t know. All I know is that I love you.”
37. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. Please.”
38. “My heart races just thinking about you. I feel amazing around you, even though I may not seem like it. I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s the way you make me feel when I am with you.”
39. “I want to be there for you when you need me.”
40. “Cheer up, sweetie.”
41. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
42. “I miss you.”
43. “I’m sorry, my darling.”
44. “Is breá liom tú.”
45. “I don’t think this is going to work out.”
46. “I’m sorry.”
47. “Do you ever have a good day?”
48. “I just lost interest after a while.”
49. “I’m sorry.”
50. “I’m so sorry.”

It does not run through our veins;

We see it only in our wounds.

We think of love and we find it,

Vibrant and terrifying and beautiful. 



It seems as though we see love as simply that:

An open wound
;
Spilled blood
Exposed to another’s oxygen.

She conceals herself in the faded corner booth of a C+ coffeeshop. Bobbed brown hair frames her face as if it were a Van Gogh original. Ruby red lips stand out against the ivory backsplash of her skin. She doesn’t feel beautiful. She draws pictures of strangers in her notebook, stares at them for far too long trying to figure them out. What they don’t realise, what she doesn’t realise, is that she’s only trying to figure herself out.

He spoke precisely, with pinpoint accuracy, stressing each syllable perfectly, pronouncing every letter as needed. It seemed as though the dictionary flowed from his tongue. It frightened people, it intrigued others. He stood with broad shoulders and recited 18th century poetry and spoke with such confidence, never second-guessing, never pausing. The first time he laid his eyes upon her, language in all sense of the word was void from his body. His tongue shriveled up and died before he could even think to move it. His shoulders slumped. Only then did he know that he needed her.

I loved the walls I told my story to every night, they were so very, very white. They ended up with holes and cracks in them but they taught me how to love, they taught me French was a language of passion, and they showed me your reflection in five years, they showed me your foreboding fears and drug laced tears.

It didn't look too good for you.

I wrote my poems along the cracks, I tried to fill the cracks in with pieces of my heart but it wasn't big enough to fill them and we all knew it from the start.
Now my chest is empty and I'm growing a new one and watering it with things that don't try to **** me.

I'd rather shoot myself in the head and end up dead than end up with a hollow soul again.

The paper I sleep on has leaks from where my chest and my mind try to meet up in between and I just end up throwing up black ink at 3 a.m.

I would rather drink bleach than end up back in this town after I've been released.
There are footprints all over this little cage from everyone we used to hate and all the people you wanted to date and now I just lie awake and awake and awake and it's all fake.

The rhythm from the rhyme is satisfying when you remember why we tried to rhyme, how we taught ourselves to survive off of empty pens and shredded paper, and I remember how many times I told my mom I wanted to die that night.

The walls know my secrets, I tore them down, my heart leaked out like the tears from my sieve-eyes on all of those tragedy filled nights, my best kept secrets are long gone now and I'm sure I'll get asked once or twice about those secrets that float through the shadows of past, but I look at them as more than sand in an hour glass, something like the sand on the shore that the sea eats when it gets sore.

The welcome sign has our names on the back of it but you can cross mine out or cover it up with someone new because my heart isn't here and my heart isn't through and I'm feeding it a hopeful story about a girl that once knew you.

I forgive, I forgive, and you'll probably never forgive me for how easy I can forget.