there is only one kind of love that I know
it hangs over my head silent and still
weaving around tufts of hair and
under my fingernails
there is only one kind of love that I know
it can be violent and cruel
always leaving a sweet taste in my mouth
and blackens my teeth
there is only one kind of love that I know
it pools in tears of anger instead of sadness
it softens rough edges making it
a bit harder to see
there is only one kind of love that I know
it will only be for the self and dwells within
for which it will never appear on
the surface on my skin in
red splotched lines
there is only one kind of love that I know
it has engraved words unspoken into flesh
burning into languages that never existed
the kind of love that I know is beautiful
but only in a camera lens and not in the
reflection of murky water
there is no trust between myself and these walls
it is distorted
running thin
how I wish this love would only last.

she was an artist.
there was no other glow to compare to the beauty she saw, it reflected onto her skin and into her pale sunken eyes. the night is a dull and wonderless place. she watched other artists in confusion, wondering why they painted with ashes and blood onto an empty canvas. she painted with white onto black and into stars made of glass that sprang from darkness.
but she was no artist.
the lines spilling from her hands to her feet made a trace back to her heart and tangled her hair with frustration and breathless lungs. there was no longer room for a paintbrush. there was no longer room for air. the canvas was born empty. the stars were born without light. now evening towers above her, aching goodnight.

I dress like a school boy. Plaid collars clashed with sweaters and stiff jeans that are skin tight. I paint stars on my cheeks because i am one with the sky, one with the world above me, a part of this universe. I wear crooked eyeliner to match the fierceness in my eyes.  But nothing i do seems to mix. I am the human truth, that part of reality the world does not want you to see. I am not plain or irregular, i am blank. My hair is blue but it does not stand out against the greys and the black. My bedroom sheets are red stained with white and the walls are sticky like rain. They close in around the empty spaces, threatening the oxygen filling the room. Its not always this hard to breathe, but when it is I feel alone. I feel every breath escape my body and form clouds in the sky that turn into snow. The snow falls into piles around the ground, where people shiver and catch colds. It is made into snowmen, and dressed better than the people dress themselves.
Then they melt. They melt like the fire in your eyes on a stormy night. They melt like the lives who were never meant to be lived and they melt like the tears trickling down your chin. They melt like the silence left after you're dead and gone, and when there's nothing left to say. Then the water runs in your veins and pools in your heart. It stains my hands and knees, and all the places I pray at night, hoping someone out there will hear me. And as I stand up and dust off my skin tight jeans and salty skin, I push off my scratchy sweater that i have hated to wear and look at myself in the mirror. I ask "What am i? Who am I? And why the hell am I here?" And the answer is never to be found, like the stars in your eyes,  like the stars in the snow.