tomorrowwon'tcomefastenough

I feel dead people. Their presence steams as would a boiling kettle without a lid. I just can not see them with my foggy eyes. I feel them sweating me.

My self-conscious body has never felt more beautiful than it did in your arms
Your voice was the quench to my thirst
And when I read my poem to you, you could hear all the emotion in my throat
And your reaction was this
"Ask me to be your girlfriend again"
And let me tell you that was the perfect response
The weeks I spent without you are ones I never want to relive
You've left your mark on me
Literally, on my neck is a love bruise or a bruise from your kiss or whatever sappy phrase you prefer
Some people say they wear their hearts on their sleeves, well my heart is hid deep inside this girl named Kylie
I've never liked that name until it made me fall in love
She is why I write poems and she's the topic of every sentence I write and every conversation I have with a stranger
Baby I need a cigarette and a handful of Xanax to calm these nerves
Actually, I'd choose you over cigarettes and pills anyday because somehow you give me the same effect except the high I get from you never fades

I have never argued to be the happiest person in the world nor sad nor intellectually gifted past the point of pretentiousness-but I have argued to be the least truest artifact that ever rested my whole entire weight soley on the ***** of my heels, cresting my chin rounded to the pins and points of the skies that buzz life into the rowdy blacks of my eyes, ready, ready, ready. I have-time and time again reminded my own-self of the fickleness that rapes me of sincerity and so I've told him-her-you-they-we-and-even me -that alone is self-destructive and togetherness, well, well, togetherness is over-reliant.

What does it mean
To mean?
What does it matter
To matter?
How does it feel
To feel?
All I know is that,
It Feels like it Means something,
to Matter.