you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
The DarknessImmortality is wasted on the youngbut fortune has chanced me eldest.I was the beginning, and will be the end.Darkest, truest, endless.
contactwould it be possibleto grow so comfortable withanother person'sskin,that distancewould feel like tearing off your own?
ScepticismTearfully, God played dead.
for riley i think i have forgotten how to dream for the last time it happened i smiled and ran my palms through your hair sifting out sand and fumbling at the buried shards of sea glass that bite at my calloused fingers. your frothy eyes threaten to drown me but instead i inhale dopamine and carefully trace the thin boardwalks that wrap around your skull where the hair is missing. you ask me if i cried and i said that i didn’t think i knew how to once when i was young i saw a baby cardinal huddled and bleeding in the grass. i watched the ants and the flies skim over the contours of its closed eyelids until i scooped it up and held
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
pine cone heart. it is 9:36 on a Tuesday night. i don't know if it's still snowing, but i do know it's cold and my palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. slowly, it eats away at my epidermis like a parasite. soon i will be nothing more than skeletal muscle and a decaying pericardium. i think this is beginning to happen already, this disintegration. it began five minutes and thirty seven seconds ago when i realized two things: you will never love me. i will love you all the same. our timelines were never meant to connect, not really. there was just that second-long contact, a chance, a lifetime in my eyes. i keep replaying that moment again and again. i don't remember what you were wearing, how your hair looked, the way your smile looked. no; all i can recall is how your skin felt on your forearm, the sound of a marker against flesh. i realize that that is all we will be: a fleeting smile. a promise to keep in
contrastthe capacity to feel happiness grows parallel with the capacity to feel pain.
hauntedour house is hauntedmemories floating like ghostsscreaming without sound
I am afraid of monsters like you.Bones and sinew clingto the part of methat is not human,the part of me thatis yours.Your lips are readyto pounce mine whenyou lace my neck withthe collar of hope.It hangs too tightly.
1.words clog my throat.i'm beginning to thinkthat typewriter keyslook a whole lotlike fresh pack of cigarettes. but thatmight just be the bitter poet in me trying to surface.
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
EmptyI feelEmpty.i cannot healFrom thisStrange pain.Being hitBy a trainWouldn't feel asBad as this.They say thatIgnorance is blissBut where is That?I feelFlat.I haveNothing to say.At least the painHas gone away.For now...
CoffeeI want to go outAnd drink coffee.Talk about lifeAnd kiss you.But that is silly isn't it?I don't like coffee much.I'll just buy some for youSo I can watch you smile.Then lets dance and laugh becauseIt's an amazing feeling to be loved.
TearsTears are good for the eyesyou knowit's like rubbing alcoholon paper cutsit burnsit hurtsit stingsit opensfresh woundsbut it's good for the eyes you knowit's that vaccinethat makes you soreit cleansit healsit lets outall the bad feelstears are good for your eyesyou knowso I think I'll lay downlay down and cry now
i hope the stars will come back to mewhen i was fifteen i wrote about the starsi wrote about the boys i was in love withand the body i lived ini wrote about the hatred i felt for myselfbut i covered it up with prettier poemsand only let people read the parts of methat i wanted them towhen i was sixteen i wrote about heri wrote about the girl i lovedabout the people around me,those that changed mei wrote about happiness and a futureand those poems were for me to exploreand to be more of myself in themnow i am seventeenin three short weeks i will be eighteenthis past year i have written about angerabout the sadness that plagues meabout the life i didn’t want anymorei wrote about family and the little sisterwho was out of touchabout growing upthese days i write about my depressionabout the anxiety that wracks my bodyand keeps me in bed each dayi write about alcohol and cigarettesof my broken family and whatit has done to mei still write about her because she is still thereand i still love h
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch