Thats the thing about poetry,
you think im talking about a
broken heart,
when really,
Im talking about a broken
world.

And all they heard was,
white noise.
In the midst of their own self destruction.

This is etched
into my bones,
carved,
into my very being.
And i
don't want to be
bound
by the flawed framework
of my body...so
tell me,
what does it take to escape?

There is a ring on my left hand;
it is just as much a knife to my back
as a knife in my pocket as I walk down a dark alley.
It is the light at the end of a tunnel that is already lit
and the light by which we guide ourselves home by in the night.
It is the bullet that misses its innocent target
and the bullet that explodes in the hands of a person defending their home.
This ring, that glints in the night, and shields me...holds the answer and the questions.

Why can't you feel this?
How i am sinking...right back down
to where the darkness lives.
How tall men and
lipstick-red lies paint my dreams
at night,
instead of sleep.
How the only time
i can feel the cold
is when i lay on the floor,
drooling, with whiskey pouring from
my being.
How the taste of food
is just a grey sky
with sharp clouds.
How i feel myself slipping,
but no one can see me...

There are teeth
that gaurd the one
and only
me, I have ever known.
The one that hurts
anyone they've ever loved;
the one that destroys everything it lays its eyes on.

I poured the cold coffee into the sink
and watched as it spiraled down
the drain.
I haven't used sugar to sweeten my sleep supplement in years.
I need to learn that this blackness will never fill the hole in my chest,
it will never make the ache go away.
That sleepless nights are not enough
punishment for the wrongs I've done.
That dragging my feet, and rubbing my blood shot eyes,
cannot make up for the hearts I've hurt.

The leaves of the trees have
lost their color,
and are falling
to the ground,
cold, and dead.
The air bites
at any exposed skin
and I can no longer feel
my fingers.
The sky is always
dark and dull.
There are
no sounds
of birds in the morning
when I wake.
There are no flowers
in the frozen ground.
And as I sit, on the frigid
cement,
I realize,
that I have no reason to be here,
once again.

Maybe I'm tired.
What if I told you I couldn't remember the last time I've gotten more than seven hourse of sleep?
Would you believe me?
I could be lying to you.
I could be lying about staying up, starring at my ceiling with bloodshot eyes, thinking about what a girl, with purple hair and a heart, that once used to be so cold, told me words that i never wanted to hear.
Even if it might have only been in a dream
Evenifitdidntmakemefeelanything
Imtootired
Tofeelanything
M­aybe you'd believe me if I described it with intricate detail?
How
The air was cold and the blanket I slept with didnt quite cover my shoulders or my feet
How the coldness touching my skin
Just matched the temperature
Inside my chest
and how
The side of my bed dipped from
Broken metal springs
Just like my bones
That felt close to dust
Because of the exhaustion
Dripping
Off of my being
How
the red numbers on my alarm clock were six minutes too far
From the present
and
How the metal rings on my right hand
Cut into
My skin
But not enough to break the surface
How the hours passed
And i did not blink
I could not look
Away
From the glowing stars I so oh
Deperately wanted to return to
To recycle myself into this earth
And maybe have a slight chance
Of giving back
Some
Of all that I have taken from it
If
It meant
I wouldnt be so tired
But I could be lying.
I could be.
What if I am?
If I told you I was, would you believe me?
Maybe not
Because only someone who has felt like that can put it into pretty words? So I musnt be lying?

I have these masses of hollow spaces inside of my chest,
and I don't mean to get my hopes up, but I want to believe,
that you are trying to do some good. But meanwhile,
I am ******* air into this body;
I can't feel my lungs,
and I realize,
that I don't want any of it.

And I have been fighting,
I have been fighting since
I knew I had to fight.
Since I knew what it was.
I was fighting against the smoke
that blew its way
out of my brother's lungs
in the middle of the night
when he thought i was asleep.
I was fighting against my father's uncontrollable anger,
and hands that roamed my body
when I didn't want them to.
I was fighting against my friends darkness
and my own.
But I never once,
had to fight you.

Last night he called me
precious.
He said that I was
precious
just like a
sunset.
But i am sure that
one day
he won't believe that anymore.
One day I will
let go of the storm
right under my tongue
that i have been holding at bay.
One day i will let waterfalls
pour out of my eyes
and drown everything.
One day he will wake up
and open his phone
and look at me,
or perhaps another girl,
but he will realize the same thing:
That i am not what he thought i was.
With my cold hands that match
a cold heart.
With blue eyes that hint at
a brighter soul than there is.
With light skin that hides more
darkness than the alleyways downtown.
With restless muscles that can only mean hidden rage.
And that sunsets are never quite what you see them as.

I would have traveled the world looking for you,
never had I came across something
so painfully beautiful
as that kiss.
I wish it was something I could capture,
and share with the universe,
that this
this is what its like.
This is how it feels,
to fall.