I exhaust you, you disappoint me. I bite the dry skin that exists on my fingertips to compensate for the intense worry that my heart is submerging in. Do you ever feel bad for your heart? I feel bad for my whole body and how it has to hold all of me. As your body hovers over mine, I wonder if your breath caressing my face will be the last time I will get to experience you being so close where I can literally feel you existing. Being your dog, I am not sure if I dislike it as much as I train myself to. I am also not sure if you are as bad as I write you out to be, or I think you out to be. I yell accusations, you calmly speak on how it is all in my head. You have finally convinced me that this is true. Words that are null to you, hit me and radiate somewhere unknown inside. Your words break bones. Being in your car, as mundane as that is, pours so much compassion that overflows and releases it from these eyes in an attempt to save room for more. Your veins provoke my affection with its vast mileage. I have bricks on my tongue, cement rope that ties me to you. With time, my light grows more gleaming while yours diffuses. I have seen your heart do things what no other can. Please understand that I can delude my feelings but not the mental instability that has broken my wings. The idea that we can die only once is a myth. You are lucky. I know what you want, when you want it, how you want it.

I made a promise to never let them hush my personal expression and compassion. The covenant is rapidly being eaten away; filling the bellymouths. To be obscure is to lay foundation with dreams of a home. The only materials used are personal emotions and mutual understandings. Carpenters come and go, forgetting the tools. They will come prepared tomorrow surely. Oh, well they’ll be here next week.

No one loves a broken girl forever, if at all

I often describe myself to how the woods look after it rains. my words that make someone feel the same way that an extra shot of tequila does. To be broken but bury it beneath me when you’re here, but unconsciously dig it up when you leave.

if i am not held, not loved, not used, then what am I? 
I follow you into your room - I am your daily routine. I take off my clothing after seeing you have already. You did not begin to caress me. 

Instead you made an incision between my ribcage and genitals, examining my interior and told me,

they look damaged

some of these just don’t even function anymore. you don’t even exist anymore, you just live for other people that feed you acceptance

he throws me onto the bed, having no choice but to say god’s name in vain several times that night.

a bird with a broken wing in the palm of your hands

i feed myself drugs as i incoherently ramble to you about my lack of social skills and the traumatizing size of my body.
the dogs i have been fed to now have muzzles that have been carefully crafted by your comforting hands.

your hands do many things. pleasure me, or pleasure you. they form music that creates salty wet liquid on my cheeks. they wipe off the salty-wet liquid off my cheeks. they secure me in this bed at night, from running away with midnight thoughts. your hands interlock with mine, creating a tick in my spine, goosebumps arise in my inner thighs.

when we compare hands, yours are much larger. this is our bodies way of showing your advantage over me. how you can take my whole existence and crush it with one locked fist.

without your hands, i would not love you.

My First Valentine In My Whole Life

your desire for me only comes when I present whats hidden in my inner thighs. you grind my dainty clit with boredom. i bloom like a flower, an ugly one when you take off my petals. you take me in hand, try to make some sense of me, when you make none. but i won’t stop because you’re the only one who lets me weep against your palm. my labia minora lie there and remind you of a dead moth’s wings but closing your eyes and fantasizing about someone else in this bed makes them come alive. you close those green shutters so hard you don’t even look to see what your hand or cock has netted. they are closed and suddenly you have never felt anything quite like me before, has only seen my kind in the corrupt pornography you get off on. you cum, i let you cum anywhere that you think would look best on me. we lay after and you make jokes and I’ve forgotten how to laugh. nothing is different than it was at that moment but everything is different than before, when I wasn’t the used condom you came in from fucking all those girls in your head. my panties lie on the floor, pushed into a pile of your dirty laundry scattered all over. your floor reminds me of my self esteem, so low and you walked all over it. happy valentines day.

types of girls:
1. syrup that tastes so sweet but leaves a stickiness that won’t leave
2. docile dandelions that blow away and leave you forever
3. animal bones that crush under your jaw
4. home

i begin to get cold
but his countenance warms me
hes starving
comfort and my arms is what I feed

in return
he holds me underwater
so he can see where I bleed

brings out his tourniquet
wraps me in reassurance
that this is too true to believe
that one day he will leave

types of boys:
1.algae growing on skin
2.water for the flower inside you to grow
3.waves that come and go until you leave the beach
4.dirt

Metaphor For All the Men/Women In the Future

The tire is deflated. All of its strong rough edges smoothed and calloused -  it lost the inspiration to move. I measured its pressure with a gauge and fell in love with it’s damage. I used my air pump and brought the rubber back to life again. I raised it on my jack and placed it on my hub, giving it muse to spin again. We travel down my lost highway, occasionally experiencing the pot holes and bumps causing it to deflate more frequently. I fill it with my air. One day, driving, it will get tired of being pumped with my air and will spin off to find another car to support. I will be left lost and stuck in the middle of my highway called life, until I discover a spare that will continue my journey. There will be many tires and replacement tires while driving down this road, because I will always rely on spinning rubber to keep me going. I will never discover the beauty of independence. Why can’t I just walk?

Madre

Mother, mother
What have I done with you?
Your entire existence
Accompanied with the dirt under my shoe

You were crying at the kitchen table
Unable what to do
The baby with unchanged diapers
Crying in the other room

Who were you to run to?
You laid in the arms of crack
Nothing new
The flickering, crackling, twitching
Sounds of responsibility past-due

I am so glad I buried you

Vulnerable Girls

When I was a little girl, I always wondered if I was a flower or a weed
Years later I accepted my role as a dandelion girl
Wherever the wind blew a boy
Thats where my seeds would lead
*
I’d let boys blow
My innocence and stability away
Only to wish
That other, prettier girls were the same
*
Time would go by
My seeds slowly did too
Blowing in the wind
Of pheromones, testosterone, and sin
* 
Then the storm hit 
Ripping my seeds into it’s grasp
Almost engulfing me from my roots
Asphyxiated under the profound grasp
*
All that remains
Is a few seeds
My dainty stalk
Sustained from the root
Where it begins, the pain

This is not metaphor, dandelions girls do exist. They say yes when they shouldn’t, vulnerable to a mans touch, other people sometimes call them sluts. Use caution if you ever share your heart with this type of girl. Protect this girl, when she says she’s going home she always want’s to stay. Always make her stay. Because one day you’ll make the mistake of taking her for granted. She’ll realize, and when you go to look for her, she has already blown away.

Realize the Beauty Beyond the Atmosphere

the moon is sharp. the moon has wit. and let me tell you, she always knows. she gives you nutrients when the sun is gone to provide them. you only become born in the dead of night. two a.m. with the TV on for comfort and a cigarette never absent from my dirty, gnawed fingertips. the stipple of stars accompanying her tell individual, fascinating (sometimes devastating) stories. think of all the possible things that could be happening under the stars when you are presented by them. think of all the things that are better then being restless and degenerate at three in the morning with only a novel in hand to keep you from going off the edge. then when you start to break and shatter, if you think of all the worst things that the stars and the moon get exposed to every night for billions of years you’ll come to the realization that people have more broken glass trailing behind them as you do. you still can’t stop crying. you’re always crying.

Burning the Wood

the years it took
for us to build a safety around us
for the deceiving ones to bring us wood
nails, and a hammer
we build a log cabin
a void to isolate ourselves in

the one who loves
has come with gasoline
and a pack of matches
they set fire to your facade

and you realize

you no longer need that log cabin you’ve made for yourself to feel safe and secure, because they’ve made you feel that way since the day you discovered their existence.

January 22, 2013 - Being fifteen

I am nothing but a pile of blood and anxiety. Even more when i’m in your presence. You make my heart dance to the beautiful sound of your guitar. You still create salty-liquid on my face when you need to relieve your problems to me. Some people fall in love, but do they do it to love someone unconditionally? Are they the bandage for each others wounds? When one bleeds, does the other have prepared a tourniquet before-hand?
I feel a connection when you intrude my body - your countenance of pleasure makes me whole. I want to make you feel good, I want to hold you as you weepingly cling on to my frame for dear life. I want you.
I have you, but I want you in every way.

I want you when you look at me with those phosphorescent eyes first thing in the morning. I want you when you cuddle next to me and make me feel safe from the corrupt world. I want you when you hurt me, when we fight. Each time we do, I desperately hold back grabbing you, squeezing your body next to mine and press my lips to your baby pink, comforting, tear-jerking ones. I want you when you prepare a facade with humor to protect yourself. I want you with your guiard down. I want you in my room with your shadow on my walls to assure myself you’re real. I want you when you open your insecurities to me. I want you to find comfort in me.

I want all of you

I stare at you, because of your beauty. I stare at you, because I see a hurt, beautiful human-being who has been drained. I cannot help it. God I wish you’d wake up soon..
I’ll never let you down. I will always be that morbid, degenerate girl who never hurt, just loved, and died without it in return. I die in your absence, it really scares me. I know you already know, but I cannot be a person without you - you humanize me when I have been dehumanized for years now. I’ve never felt so lucky, so honored, to be the one you call baby.

Your mind intrigues me, your voice is a hymn, your anatomy is made up of perfectly combined chromosomes. Your touch is a warm feeling of home. Your scent sends shock waves through my insides. The beat of your fevered heart makes love to my eardrum. I measure the rhythm of it as I pleasure you with my frigid touch. My hands shake a lot, an earthquake throughout my body of anxiety that only you can put an end to.

Kiss me with your lips, your knowledge, your affection.

I am a blue-bird finally being set free. My broken, beat and battered wings will be healed. I am an ugly self-conscious caterpillar slowly becoming a radiant, colorful butterfly. I am your little stubborn fever-damaged girl becoming kinder.

I am currently more vulnerable than what’s comfortable.

I am your strayed little kitten. You pick me up and nurture me as I explore what it means to have a home, what it means to get attention, how it feels to be fed and watered love and affection.

I will put my guards back down, I will let you in completely again.

I forgive.
Heal me. Hold me. Teach me how to walk on my own two feet.
Kiss my wounds.

Be there.

Please don’t take this away, this love is my life support, if it dies then so will I.

April 30, 2012 - Getting accostumed to being fifteen

Me and the birds, they are singing and I am weeping, syncing back and forth. I think you are just an idea made up in my head. the rain pours, the bowl is lit. the sun shines, the medication is ingested but it’s never enough. I just want to be appreciated. I think I made you up inside my head.

virgin suicides. virgin tears. virgin blue eyes.

I want to express my feelings profoundly and have someone listen (but no more than a few.)

leave on simmer for 20 minutes, let stand 2 minutes before serving. afterwards, drink a lot of water 2 minutes before purging.

the leaves mark a trail to my absent mind, the sunshine weeps in.

I started crying and got side-tracted, goodbye