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- May 2014
My english teacher told me to write what I really meant to say, so I decided to go about my writing more honestly. I tried to write like a lover would instead of how a poet would. I wrote about how your eyes are cerulean, and that when you laugh, your corneas burst. And I wrote about how you lose track of what you're doing very easily and how I still feel your touch on me hours after you're gone. And I wrote about how you walk like you're on a tightrope which always throws me off because in many ways you're clumsy. I wrote about how it's almost impossible to describe how I feel about you without using caps and how you're so much more than an MLA formatted essay. And you're more than a stamped apology letter, and you're more than a poem to add to my collection. You're more like a novel, you fill the margins with footnotes and I never want to put you down. I want to re-read you until the pages start to fall out and most of them will be dog eared and highlighted, I'm sorry I just love everything about you and I'm also sorry that I've never been exactly what you wanted but please remember that I breathe you in every single day. I fall asleep to the sound of your voice even if I haven't heard it in days and I hear a song and want to show you it. I can feel how good of a person you are because you haven't stopped knocking the wind out of me since we first met. I've always been told that it takes just a spark to light a wildfire. Is that true? I hope so. If it is, then we're going to be set ablaze. Tsunamis roar in your eyes and nobody's dared to tell you to calm yourself. I think it'd be a privilege to drown in your eyes and feel the weight of your insecurites. Have you ever kissed somebody that made you taste colors? Have you ever hugged the sun or told the moon all your secrets? I look at you and I've done all three. But I want to know what the sunset looks like when you're in love with me. Are you in love with me? Is that even possible? I've found the valleys of your spine and studied your cheekbones to make sure they weren't porcelain. I want to hear your voice crack when you speak to me but only because when your voice is cracked I can fill the cracks with mine and that's my definition of a conversation. Everything points towards you and I can't help but love you. I think this is my definition of love. I chose you out of everybody, that's love, right? No, I didn't choose you. I didn't get to choose. You don't get to choose who you love. That's what I've always been told. Yes, this is love. I love you.
  May 2014 -
The skeletons of clocks will always haunt these hallways
And I can never remember anything you said to me
I suppose the problem is the rope around my neck
Never mind the fact that you’re the floor under my feet
Maybe I just hate the idea that everything I touch here could become a memorial
All for a lost soul who never learned how to properly read a map
But I think I’m just scared of my candle burning out before its lit
I’m tired of the silverware tied to my wrist and the paperclips under my fingernails
We walk on eggshells and all we ever do is **** our own young
You hurt me more than anyone and my lungs still bleed everyday
This is not on me I blame you both for it but not for the tremors in my hands
I still remember that hospital room
And the twenty seven hooks that held up the curtain
Those condescending looks stick with you
After all I’m just another stupid kid spilling his guts all over your floor
I still remember that the part that hurt the most
Was when they took all the pain away
And I think about that a lot more than I should
Maybe that says things about me that I could never tell you
There are a lot of things that I have trouble saying
And I’ve never been fond of needles
Or the bed they told me I was meant to sleep in
This is not my own creation I know I didn’t work for this
I was aiming for the church bells and all I hit was the flagpole
Can you still fall asleep without my skin these days
Do you find yourself lying in bed reaching towards the ceiling
Almost as if you could cradle the stars in your hands
Because I do and I like to think you’re doing the same
- Apr 2014
i'm trying to tell my body that it's just a body and that you are just a body and that i can let go and that i can tell you to leave. and i told you that i don't know how to do much, i don't know how to stay and i also don't know how to leave and i also don't know what to do when i get the feeling that you're leaving and i know i'm not making much sense but you need to leave because i don't know how. i also don't know how to tell you that i'm not the type of rain that's meant to kiss in, i'm the type of rain that you're supposed to run inside to avoid. i told you i love you and that my lungs hurt from trying to not hyperventilate and this hurts me more than it could hurt anybody else but when i'm with you, i try to stop my hands from shaking and i try not to make eye contact with you and i can't spit out most of what i want to tell you and that's really sad because i have so many stories to tell and so many questions to ask and i can't tell you why this happens but i'm going with i love you too much. and you just stood there. i don't know if it was because you wanted me to say more or to shut up or because you never heard me say that much in such a short time period but you just stood there. and when you started walking towards me i knew you probably blocked out my voice by then and i realized you're the reason for gravity. at least my gravity. you're the thing keeping me anchored to the ground. i tried my hardest to push you away but every time i pushed too hard my knuckles started bleeding apologies that i know you don't like hearing and now you're not here but you're not gone and i miss you.
  Apr 2014 -
She is not a prize but that does not mean you should not prize her
Keep her heart on the mantle but light a fire beneath it to keep her warm and kind
Don’t keep her hidden like a secret she has already been bottled up her whole life
Show her off like a lottery ticket it was nothing more than luck that brought her into your life
This was not your own doing and you will do well to remember that
Give her a place to hide when the sun is too bright and the wind is too loud
But don’t treat her like a caged animal she does not belong to you
She is a canvas but you are not the artist and you do not touch her without her written consent
The right to decorate her body with your fingerprints or your kisses does not belong to you
Keep your hand outstretched to her at all times
She knows herself better than you do and she will take it when she needs it
When she cries don’t stop her and when she smiles smile with her
These are honest forms of communication so listen when she talks to you
Never yell at her she doesn’t deserve that
Don’t treat her like a child anymore her parents did enough of that
If she falls asleep first she feels safe whatever you do hold on to that
She is already scared of the ways she can hurt herself she doesn’t need to be afraid of the ways you can hurt her
And whatever you do don’t give her a reason to leave
She might think you want her to
- Mar 2014
This is heartbreak, this is that tugging you feel when you hear his name. This is anxiety, this is how you know how real "this" can be. This is the feeling of numbness, this is how you cope. This is how you welcome depression, this is how you never got to tell him you're sorry. This is how you want to crawl into bed and only come out when he says it's okay, that he's there. This is how you fake a smile, and tell everybody it's okay, that he's not feeling pain anymore, when you're still trying to believe it yourself. This is how you tell the voices in your head to shut up, this is how you ask the nurses, "why?"

This is how you teach yourself to let go, this is how you tell yourself he's okay. This is sadness trying to comfort you, telling you about how great of a person he was, but it's sadness, everything about it makes you feel worse. This is that ball of tightness you feel in your throat when your mom hugs you, this is you trying to be strong for everybody. These are your shaking hands holding his favorite shirt, this is the strength he taught you. This is the throbbing in your head, this is how you regret. This is how you tell yourself that's it's okay, this is how you convince yourself that he still loves you, this is how you convince yourself that people aren't so bad. This is how you don't want to look in the mirror, this is how you find the strength to get out of bed. This is how you forget how to sleep, this is how you remember was misery is. This is how you shut people out regardless of how unhealthy it is, this is how you look up to stretch your neck with your eyes closed and take a deep breath.

This is how you miss somebody.
- Mar 2014
open up your soul and let me explore your heart.
when i'm walking in black caves instead of traditional red ones,
i promise to fix the cracks and tears and impurities life has put there along the way.
and when i get lonely and i start to miss your voice,
i'll find my way to your head
and visit your thoughts.
i know it's dangerous there,
like i'm walking straight into a tornado
with your insecurities racing by me to get to your eyes
and your confusion darkening a corner of your mind.
and with your loneliness walking by itself to it's room,
with its black eyes and pure white hair,
pale skin and lips that have never smiled before
you can't help but think about the thoughts running through it's own head
and how scary it'd be to walk through there.
maybe that's why it's so lonely,
everybody's scared they'd never walk out of its mind.
and when i can't take the chaos anymore,
i'll run to your spine
and count your vertebrae.
and when i get bored there,
i'll walk to your hands
and think about what destruction they've done
when they broke that mirror
and when they wrote that poem that hangs in my room
and after i have my map of your body put together
i'll leave it in your heart.
- Mar 2014
you're a book that has been locked shut and the writer has swallowed the key. and i heard he's ripped out a few pages because they were tearing him apart knowing he wrote them, and because the thought of creating such a thing could drive any man insane. and legend says he doesn't remember when he wrote you, or what crawled into his head to make him want to write down what he did. but if somebody took the time to look at his handwriting, the way he dotted his "i's" and messed up on his "h's" because his hands were cramping from getting lost in you for so long and if you let somebody read every page, take the time to read everything that makes up you, dog ear your pages when they find something interesting and then go back and read the same sentence over and over again, and silently apologize when they have to put you down for the night, i think you could learn to understand that not everybody absorbs insanity quite like you.
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