Before you licked my windshield clean,
I kept hitting every ******* curb.
You laughed at me and said all of the cracked bumpers and shallow dents could have been prevented;
I blame it on my lack of automobile knowledge.
"It has nothing to do with cars, Amelia."

I hate poems that rhyme
almost as much as human's concept of time.

****.
It's already 4:48???

I'm sorry that my poetry has become a tangled mess of love letters (and the regular letters), I'm just searching for an outlet -
literally, because an electric shock might be the best explanation, and
figuratively, for obvious reasons -
as a way to explain my inconsistencies and fault lines
when all I want to do is love you the best.

I've never been the best at anything, though, only an in-between.

Then again, I never actually gave a **** until you rolled around like the smoothest stone I've ever seen.
I, however, am covered in algae,
but I'm okay with that,
since you said the way moss feels between your fingers is the sole reason touch is your favorite of the senses.

The floorboards ached like the countless bruises you trace with your lips.
They sound a lot like the process of falling in love with you:

I'm not sure where they came from or when it happened.
One night in the shower, they just lined my skin.
I don't know what exactly caused them,
and I didn't even notice they were there until someone pointed them out to me.

They cover my limbs, but on the upside,
they contrast wonderfully with my paleness.

spread me open and lay me out on your table like a blueprint (I'm just as hard to read)
nail me on the wall like a laminated world map (put pins on all the places you've been)
oil me up like your old, squeaky boxspring mattress (you remember the one)
give me life like the cpr dummy in middle school health class (mouth to mouth, get it?)
tell everyone how beautiful I look like a dead body in an open casket (we all know what you really mean)
wreck me like the abandoned house behind the railroad tracks (what a shame, it has so much historical value)
wrap me up like a reopened wound (oops, my bad)
bite me like the hangnails you get from chewing your fingers (it's a nervous habit)
drill my pieces together like ikea furniture (you might just have to wing it, I lost the instructions a long ******* time ago)