Loathing in love

Its hard to imagine what life would have been like
submerged in waterfalls,
painted by the careless colors of your spine.
You were true to nobody,
which is why I admired the chase you helped me pursue.
I told you secrets, the deepest on the radar,
the ones that were scorned away by the sea,
melting salt into the pores,
stinging away the truth,
the shingle like memories, hang on the roof of my skull,
sheltering the parts of me, I keep for me, and myself only.
Love is like:
Nothing and everything.
The picture perfect button eyes of a child,
the feel of a roses warm caress
the petals take on my warmth, and mold to my skin.
They are shells on the beach,
they wash away between high tide, and low.
What I need is a good shower,
to cleanse myself of the cuts,
and the dirty battle fields of this war-love,
the kind that screams until your eardrums burst,
until the rhythm of dying is how we learn to make love.
I plug my ears, and dodge the bullets in slow motion,
You shelter me, after you shoot me.
As I lay,
my back to the worms,
I see the sky,
nothing but sepia tone bursting from the clouds,
If you look into my eyes,
you'd find love.
But you keep your eyes on my chest,
you follow the beats of my heart,
You have come to worship me on my deathbed.
I am the hallow woman you've come to read about.
I have housed your thrusts,
which trickled down my leg and left me,
After hours of promises whispered into sheets.
You'll never leave me.
Of course not,
it never just goes away.
Physically, you will remove yourself.
Mentally, you remain just as clear as the sun.
I was at war with myself,
throwing grenades at the mirror,
You sad man, the only song I've sung for you
wasn't a song at all,
it was a a battle cry, long forgotten.
But as the sounds quake from behind my throat,
every woman who has ever lost,
cries.
Where is love now?
The paint is chipping from my face,
and my blue lips frighten you as we embrace.
My pure skin,
cold and sad,
like the voice of a violin.
It fades in the corners of your mind,
and you sleep.
Love is: I am-
Sleeping.

Moth

How could this moth die
perfectly sprawled out on my chair?
I went to sit, and grew cold
with the idea of my rest,
being another creatures final rest.
At first, I touched his feet,
to make sure he wasn't just scared.
But there he remained,
so still, and so poised.
I'm sure he was ready to fly,
But not that far.

The dangerous

Where would you be,
If I hadn't ruined the best of you?
That's how it is,
that's what it's become.
A blame game, and I'm stuck
in a bottomless pit of excuses.
I was so young.
I was so careless.
I was a mess.
If it's apologies you need,
I've sent them.
If it's my love you still crave,
my venom you need,
I've still got it.
You call me,
drunk.
I answer,
sober.
And here we go,
the whys, and the ways of love.
I don't know why I left,
I always pictured myself returning,as a better version of myself.
When I was done being so sad.
I was so young,
I was so careless,
I was a mess.
If only you knew
how many flowers I've received
from other men,
faking their ways into my heart.
All the petals I've plucked from seedy stems,
and squashed beneath my heel,
They aren't you.
And no matter how hard I will myself,
I can't open my eyes,
quite as wide as I did with you.
While they kiss my spine,
My skin rejects any love, that isn't yours.
Shaking, and sweating,
They mistake my act for something sexy.
But it is pitiful,
and it is tragically overdone.
I never thought I would miss the anguish of our love,
but your spaceship still flies by my window,
sprinkling fear and remorse on my bed.
I still picture you in the grass,
flipping your hat in circles,
until you shifted the tip
enough to shield your freckled eyes from the sun.
You'd call me spineless,
if you knew it wouldn't kill me.
But you hold back your venom,
Like I could not.
I'm so young,
I'm so careless,
I'm still a mess.
But this time, I don't have you to blame.
And it's easier,
if you just keep your distance,
so I can never get the best of you, ever again.
So you can sleep alone, and mean it.
So I can sleep alone.

BRO

What do you need to know?
Press it against me,
and I'll shed a tear for the ego you once knew.
You feel me bro?
Nah, I doubt it.
You don't know the corners of the universe like I do.
I've gone places,
and remained in this seat the whole time.

Just stay still, and shutup.
that's how I like em'.


You feel me?
You feel me?
Hey? You feel me?
Good.

> or < or =

There is a ballerina drifting across my jewelry box mind.
She spins, and remains perfectly poised,
plastic, skinny, shiny, blonde.
filling my usual silence with sighs.
The adoration of my own thought process makes me a dull woman.
If I ever catch myself loving who I am too much,
I take notes on things like my toes,
which will forever and always remain ugly.
I stare at my feet rooted to the black floor boards beneath them,
I thank them, silently, but always.
For letting me stand, even when I was too short to see.
Its easy to crochet and knit away pain,
But my spiny fingers preferred the purr of a piano,
the ivory wanna-be keys acting as beds for my pointer fingers.
I fall in love with the sexy sounds I produce,
all natural, and organic,
sprinkled with the sounds of life I love enough to recall more than once.
I thank whomever I owe this pleasant existence to
for allowing me to be the creature I am.
For allowing my voice to echo, in the deepest parts of the darkest caves.
So at least, if I die alone, I'll never forget how to speak to walls.
It's so lovely to touch my face, and feel nothing but skin.
The same skin, my freckles blossomed on,
after the sun had overly nourished my pores.
The same skin many men have placed their hands upon,
and swore to never leave.
the same skin I've stretched and returned after bouts of
body image dysmorphia after they did leave.
When I felt like a blank 16 year old.
When I was orchestrated by projected obsessions.
When I just wanted to fuck, and dance.
The commercials were all around me, and still they remain.
Playing louder and louder,
In the ears of most, it is preferred:
garbage > static.
So just as long as it isn't black and gray etched across a screen,
they will love it.
I'm so glad I left that part of me behind,
and I left it right where I found it.
Dying in the passenger seat of someone else's car.
I became ill with media,
suffering to avoid grande coffees every morning,
feeling guilty when my umbrella no longer served as a shield from the rain,
but a fashion statement, expensive and bold.
Now I run in the rain, and pity those who still remain shielded.
If you would like to think any water is Holy, allow it to be rain.
At least you know, if there is a God,
the raindrops were once at his feet.
I like to think that maybe once, in a short previous life,
I was a raindrop.
Because even here, with a human heart, and a working mind,
I know I've touched the sky.
I can't help but feel betrayed by anatomy books,
with all their different maps to my heart.
I wish I could have been the person
to discover the beat of my heart before anyone else.
before my mother placed her hand against my chest at infancy and said
"Hear that?"
I should have been the first person
to discover the rhythm of my own soul.
Before any doctor, or any mother.
We become jaded,
assuming the beats will always be there.
mechanically, funky, and raw.
If I listen hard enough,
I can hear just how my soul wanted to groove,
before anyone else told me how it should be.
What's fashionable is being alive,
being so alive that you can recognize when your beats
become someone else's,
In the hearts of most it's:
sight > thoughts
But my thoughts are so colorful and loud,
I will be the one to break the mold.
I am, and will remain alive enough to know,
this is and this isn't me.