You're dangerous when you walk towards me
But you're the apocalypse when you walk away.

You're more concerned with finding out who drew blood first
Than you are with the fact that I'm still bleeding.

I tell you I'm in pain and you ask me where it hurts
So I point to the packed bag that is sitting by the door.

The day that I told you I don't like liars
Is the day that you stopped telling me that I am a good person.

I am
a multitude of selves
determined to find
the one
that you wanted.

I am
more safe than sorry
and I
have always been
more sordid
than saintly.

The softness that resides in me
is scarce
but it's yours.

This softness is
the storm cloud over your head
and the ache
you've been drinking about.

This won't **** you
but it'll make you
bleed.

This is
the tiredness that sleep
can't fix,
this melancholy,
this melody,
the holes in butterfly nets.

We are
faulty dreamcatchers.

I can't tell
if this has been calculated
or careless
or which thought makes me more
sick of myself.

But there is something to be said
about a hope
that refuses to die
even after you've shown it
where it is to be buried.

Sometimes I'm not even sure
what I'm sorry for,
but I've learned to say it
just in case.

I was never your baby,
we were just
killing
time.

My apologies are like offering medication to a patient
Who's illness has already been deemed untreatable.

Let me try to explain
Why I'm obsessed with words like "shatter"
And the notion of something intangible breaking in half;
It is just the outpouring of all of my brokenness
Disguised as poetry.
I spent so much time watching the blood leave my body,
Thinking, "This is what it is to be humbled",
That I didn't realize the difference between my heart and a house fire.
It is simply what you are able to replace after everything
Has finished burning.
Lay back and let me show you all the different ways
That I have learned to say I'm sorry
While you blow your smoke into my mouth.
Don't throw hope away,
Gently set it on the floor and ask it politely
To take away your wallowing and self-inflicted misery.
Realize that expectations spell out heartache
In the strangest ways
And that I am still unlearning self destruction.
See that I am trying to wear my anger out,
To exhaust myself to the point of surrender for both of our sakes.
Let your pride crumble, let your knees give
Let's be something good for me to write about.
You can tell the next one that there was no hope for me,
Tell her that there is no redemption for arsonists who cry for their victims,
But remember that my intentions were good
And if you had bothered to kiss me you would've tasted the ashes
And you would've known better.