when all your scars
fade, will you pretend
you never had them
in the first place?

i wish i could love you
gently, but the beating in my
chest is echoing like a choir
through cathedral halls
and i don't know how to think
about you quietly

(maybe, if there is a god, he
meant for our song to be
heard by heaven)

i.
no matter what your teachers
may tell you, your grades are not a
measure of how smart you are, that
has more to do with how you handle your
heart, and i have never seen anyone love
more fiercely or smart than you.  

ii.
i have let boys touch me just because
i was scared to lose them; don't let them
lay a hand on you without you asking
them to, you are worth more than that.

iii.
people will walk away, but you've known
that already.  keep your chin up so that when
they turn back one last time, they know that
you don't need them.
you don't need them.

iv.
i hope you find somebody that holds your
hands, even when you're nervous and
they start to sweat.  if they pull away,
you come find me and i swear,
i won't let go.

Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.

Darkness is replaced by light. Like a cup of water it's poured out of the soul and filled with goodness that the boy tries to take in. He knows the darkness can take hold easily so he closes the door says babe I can't open it you aren't good for me. The darkness isn't a girl it isn't a person it's him it's who he is or was or is or was or isn't at all and never was. The boy grows tired, mind going faster than an old Windows computer which if you don't know isn't really fast at all. Speed-dial static manifests in his mind he craves a cigarette he's never smoked or some **** he cannot ****. He won't dip his fingers into greed so instead he'll dip his fingers into ****, or friends who smoke **** or just friends who he knows aren't good for him. One's who call him fat *** even though they probably don't know that he'd spent approximately two years starving himself so the one time he indulges they decide to say that. To call him fat and put him down why is it that he chooses the things that aren't good for him? Every. Single. Time.
  
   The computer finally boosts up faster, words spill out faster than the darkness coming out of him so finally he has something to write about. His angst turned bitter spills out, his anger spills out, his sadness spills out there's just a various amounts of spilling from his body like an **** in Japan he's soaked in juices...of emotion.

   (I can't think of anything else so end).