Acknowledgements.











to you.


thank you for feeling the same way about life as me.





now i feel slightly less weird.



Inhalation is a vast concept.
everything in you pulls the world and all of it’s life through crevices.
And then, expels it out washing away remnants of small timely moments.
Inhalation is a lot like life.
We inhale this world everyday, giving it back nothing but what we took.
when we inhale for too long the universe sends striking pains telling us they want their moments back.
I get no pleasure in taking what this world has given me.




?Desolate.?


I often imagine you











alone.










desolate.
In that dark room of yours.
Closest to the window breathing in the world around you.
Your glassy eyes beaming.
That thing you do before you cry is always beautiful.
Your face darkens in the most illuminating way.
Like a sunbeam of darkness.
And then.
Complete nothing washes over you.
You look transparent when you cry.
I see nothing but your skin.
Thin as paper.
As alabaster as can be.
But there’s nothing other than that skin.
It scares me.
No organs.
No tongue to catch your words before they fall.
No heart.
Nothing.
Alone.
Desolate.
And I sometimes wish your room,
had room for two.





you confuse me.

You're the human equivalent of a variable .
let me figure you out.
give me the time i need to evaluate your thoughts.
whether negative or positive.
you are a variable.
and your life is the most complex equation i wish to be a part of.





you.


you see?
there is something quite wondrous about sadness.
it’s our most authentic emotion.
you see?
there’s something i dont know what exactly to call it but it makes scars and bruises alluring on wounded souls.
and once your soul is wounded and weary, and you arms and pastel skin infused with milk and the softness of the winter air are bruised,battered, and scarred,
you’ll finally see.
you’ll see what its like to be me.



writers block blues.

here is sit penning what won’t come out .
my brain is vexing me.
give me these pale poems i so often use to explain my emotions that have gone astray.
you remind me of my worn jean jacket.
used and blue.
the problem isn't that i can’t write.
it’s that all my brain wants to do.
is write about loving you.

































i'm a drama queen.
i'm an attention whore.
im a lonely virgin who acts like a sl*t to fill the void.
i'm sad.
i starve myself,then eat a lot.
i hate the world.
i'm a narcissistic b****.
but god damnit i am free.



high school - bruised knuckles,pale necks just waiting to be bruised again.
day after day...










I tend to do this thing where i look at people for a bit,and just imagine them at their most vulnerable moments.
i look at them and see red eyes puffy face.
mascara streaked cheekbones and marked wrists.
but you.
you my darling,
the images don’t appear for you.
for your soul seems far too perfect to have ever been damaged.
and that my dear.
will be my job

































remember the time we laughed for hours.
about nothing on end.
when your powder blue cheeks glowed.
when my skin was as white as the snow barricading us together endlessly.
when you would sing me to sleep.
in that raspy voice of yours.
believe me when i say .
you’re the only person who makes me happy.
it’s true.
the only person i’ll ever need is you.



































i enjoy looking at you.
as weird as it may be.
your raspberry tart lips, curl up when you speak.
and sometimes i wonder
if they taste like what they look like.





























i lay the cold metal on my wrist and let it bury itself in a thick purple vein.
whats wrong with me?
the once blue blood,puddles on the tile floor and begins to fill my white shoes.
whats wrong with me.
my body is slowly dulling and throbbing like it did as a child, i can feel again.
whats wrong with me?
i can feel again! the pain is no more ! but much like the pain a wish daisy feels when withering away in the sun,
There’s nothing wrong with me.
im living dead.



























people don’t care about you unless you’re pretty, dying,or already dead.
as insensitive as it may be, it’s true.
combining all three earns you a new best friend.
it’s not real though.
people can’t even see through their own bullshit.
and realize that one day.
no one's going to know exactly who you were,
or what you did when your life is over.
a few dollar store flowers may be sacrificed.
but that is it.
eventually.
you’ll realize.
you’re 6 feet under.
and the people above you are filled with life.



















My favorite memories were when you’d sneak up behind me.
and wrap your arms around my upper waist.
burying your warm illuminate anomaly of a face into my cold pain stricken neck that was always covered by my hair.
noone has ever done such a thing to make me flicker as you did.
i found myself looking for you everyday,but never admitting to myself that i wanted you.
oh my darling,
I had wanted you.
More than the abandoned moon wants the stars to come out at night