I could talk to you twenty-four hours, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and still, get excited every time I hear your voice.
But you get sick of me after ten minutes.
I would follow you anywhere you asked me.
But you'd rather run to someone else.
The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you, or upset you.
So I walk on eggshells around you.
And I pretend like my heart doesn't break every time you get defensive or dismiss me or hook up with other people all the while saying that you "love me."
Everyone else only gets the good parts, sometimes more of them than I get.
They get the parts I stick around for in spite of the ones that make me cry myself to sleep every night.
But they don't see that side of you.
And you constantly tell me to open up and to talk to you.
Yet you won't do the same.
And you say you don't trust anything I say because I hide my feelings.
But every time I try to talk to you, you ignore me or invalidate me and I always end up feeling worse than I did before.
And if I try to talk to you about anything that you do that hurts me,
you make me think it's my fault.
You tell me it's because of all the things that I'm doing wrong.
And every time you lie to me and you manipulate me,
I know that's what you're doing.
I'm not oblivious to it, I notice it every time.
But I'm just too weak to walk away.
You say that you're a bad person and that you feel like you hurt me and you don't want to do that.
But you don't really want to change.
You like knowing that no matter what you do, or how much you hurt me, I will always be here.
If I try to leave, I'll always come running back.
If you try to leave, I'll always beg you to stay.
I would rather keep living in pain, constantly doubting myself, feeling like I'm not good enough, and believing everything is my fault.
I would rather do that for the rest of my life than ever lose you.
And it kills me because you have no problem losing me.

Lipstick is red,
B a L L s are blue.
Your mom S U c K e D my D I c K,
And your dad did too.

Sharp talons clutch the weight of a thousand words.
Black feathers carry the pain of a thousand scars.
A small head filled with dangerous thoughts,
Burdened with haunting visions whirling through a twisted mind.
Weighed down by the realization of never being the same
And the forced unawareness to try and stop the aftermath,
A distinct sound spreads throughout the empty home.
The clear sword had made its first hit to an unsuspecting victim,
Breaking hollow bones.
A cool breeze brushes against white hair,
An old hinge screams as the splintered door opens,
And black feathers, now tinted red, are strewn across the entryway.
The door closes, a feeble hand pressing the cold latch.
Perpetual screeches echo through an empty hall
As the wounded struggles with itself,
Casting itself from wall to wall,
Coating white walls in claret tinted paint,
Praying to a god it no longer believes in,
Slumping onto the icy tiles.
Cloudy cerulean eyes, like icebergs,
Meet small black ones, that shift from obsidian to coal.
Sable wings become scarlet soaked.
As the faint sound of breathing desists,
And the room is enveloped in a deafening silence.
All that is left is a lifeless form,
covered in the blood that spreads from beneath it.
And as the deep carmine seeps into the porous grout,
A quiet voice hums a happy tune.

I would tell you how empty it was,
how five people were scattered around the hole in the ground,
but only two really cared,
but I can't.

I would tell you how long it took me to get there,
how tears stung my darkened eyes
as my black heels sunk into the softened dirt.
And I would tell you about the sadness I saw in everyone's eyes that day,
but I can't.

I would tell you how I missed him,
how he was so kind,
how he was always there for me,
how he didn't deserve what came to him,
but I cant.

I would tell you how much it rained,
or what day it was,
or how small the gravestone had been,
but I can't.

Because he was not kind,
he was never there,
there was no sadness,
and I don't know if he deserved it.
Maybe he did,
maybe all the pain he caused finally caught up to him.

Because I didn't count how many people were there,
I didn't wear black heels,
and I don't know what day it was.
I didn't go.
I didn't see the headstone,
or how they cried.
How they shed tears for their tormentor because now,
they had missed him.

I would tell you I didn't want to go,
but I can't.
I would tell you that I had a choice,
but I didn't.

I just stayed home,
staring at the ceiling
while they held an empty funeral.

I wrote a letter in cursive
Perfect lines of painful words
I cannot say I don't deserve it
But i cannot say it didn’t hurt
Shimmering fireflies dimly lit the gloaming
While my tears softened the paper beneath the tip of my pen
And when the ink spread across the translucent parchment,
I saw your face.
And i heard your voice,
And i felt your sorrow.
So i put the letter in a locked drawer
And made the empty promise of finishing tomorrow.

There is a man who loves his wife,
but comes home late every night.
There is a man who drinks,
who has too much pride.
There is a man who has a life,
but sometimes wishes that he could die.
There is man who doesn't float, he only sinks
as he looks at a bottle with wide eyes.
There is a man who thinks of the afterlife,
but he keeps his children happy with pretty lies.
He smiles to the public, but fights a war inside.
Because a man is not what he thinks.
A man is the secrets he hides.

A blank stare.
The soft rustle of long black hair
whipping in the wind.

Tear stained cheeks and red eyes,
a certain feeling of numbness that won't subside.
The sound of painful screams echoing in an empty mind
that is bustling inside all at the same time.  

Distant memories come back to haunt
while the good times have already been forgotten
as if they were some wild dream.

Upon looking at the calm water and being spritzed in sea spray,
most don't realize that the same crystal waters they are gazing upon
is part of the body that swallows up unsuspecting victims
and sent many to their graves.

The sun reflecting upon the clear water burns her eyes.
She jumps as a soft hand rests upon her shoulder.
It is a young boy,
An unfamiliar face that seems so innocent and so pure
that she feels she has known him all her life.
Then she remembers that she no longer has one.

The person she was,
the person that would smile and say hello
was long gone.
She died in that same sea long ago.

The boy asked her name but she only replied,
"I don't have one. Not anymore."

Upon seeing the confused look that had washed over the boy's face
and the curious gleam in his eyes,
she said,
"Names are for people with purpose,
for those who have someone to love
and a life to live
and a home to arrive to at the end of each day.
They are not for the broken.
They are for the people who are blissfully oblivious.
They are not for me."
And so she walked away,
her frail body becoming smaller with each step she took into the distance.
And the boy tried calling out to her,
but he couldn't.
For she had no name.