i guess you only like girls who are broken
and want to be hurt, like your hands
around her neck, want
bruises and cuts
in the shape of a heart,
inhaling and choking on your affection
like she needs it to breathe

translucent skin stretched across
veins that pump nicotine and you
you, you, you, you, you

judgement clouded by hyper-dependent
infatuation and the need to heal her
hollowness, although you’ll only ever be
another teardrop on her pillowcase
while she hums herself to sleep
with midnight lies

“the loss of you would be the loss of my life”

and the saddest part
is that i almost let myself fall
back into becoming that
lifeless, empty girl
once more because i thought it might
make you love me again.

When you see her cry
     you get a rag,
a gentle delicate cloth.
                                        Lovingly grasp her hand
                                               and dab its tip;
                                       dry each tear as they come.
                                                           ­                               And ask each drop
                                                            ­                                   why it'd leave
                                                           ­                               such beautiful eyes.

  If she wishes
to be in the sky,
  tell her to go.
                              Take the sun ransom,
                              and replace its shining
                                    with her own.
                                                            ­          So you can see her every morning
                                                         ­                          and wish for her
                                                                ­                  return each night.

When you see her scars
  both visible and non-
    touch each gently.
                                             And remind her
                                       that each and every hurt
                                            she has survived,
                                                       ­                                 has only made her
                                                                ­                   that much more unique;
                                                         ­                              that much stronger.

  Show her that she
  is a special person
and is worthy of love.
                                     That she deserves the love
                                            she fears to give...
                                            show her so that
                                                            ­                     one day after you're gone
                                                            ­                      she can find the strength
                                                                ­                    to go on without you.

    Tell her that while
she might not be a goddess
far above worldly desires,
                                          that she is amazing,
                                         for just being herself
                                    for being that beautiful girl
                                                            ­                   who thinks herself damaged
                                                         ­                         when in truth she's just
                                                            ­                    a different kind of beautiful.

   And finally, love her.
  Like a boy loves a girl
Till she finally remembers
                                            that that's what she is:
                                          not a scar, not a goddess,
                                             not a star. But a girl.
                                                           ­                         That deserves to be loved.

I don't know if I’m good enough.

Oh, I can string the words
like silvery, satin, wild-caught pearls
along a silken line...
I can foment strong, heavy words
like boots that march in ****** mud
or hot, shivering sand.
I can sling words like silent razors
slicing swift and clean.
But every day...
every day when the word count rises
when writing’s the thing and not the play,
when words must stick together in factory formation
to add up, to bring forth, to produce...
maybe I’m not good enough for that.

You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

You answered just a little too fast.
It surprised me.
I haven't seen you in about a year,
And I am realizing I've missed you.
It surprised me.
The last time I saw you,
And the time before that,
You were intoxicated.
It surprised me.
I haven't seen you in about a year,
And I am realizing what you are to me.
It surprised me.
You are a dress without hems or seams.
I hardly know you but you are beautiful.
You are the bullet in the rotating cylinder of the gun to my head.
You dig through my skull and explode my amygdala.
And force me to love you.
You are the jam in the barrel as I pull the trigger.
I fell to the ground in realization:
You both killed me and saved me.
It surprised me.

Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

"it's ok"
i whisper to my arm
with the new scar
waiting to dry
"it's ok"
i whisper to my cheeks
with the salty tears
waiting to dry
"it's ok"
i say to the moon
without a face
waiting to die
"it's ok"
i whisper myself
with the cuts
waiting to die

Sometimes he let his eyes rest on hers, it needn't have been painful,
but it strangely was.
He broke a lifetime of avoiding eye contact to show her.
She was worth overcoming obstacles for.