Everything

~

She's a self-proclaimed mess
and a you-complained screwup
and the only things that ever flecked her brown eyes
were wish-wasted lashes and
you-wasted tears.

She can never fall asleep on her back
(maybe all the knife-wounds haven't healed yet)
and the only way you'll get her to say
it hurts
is if you convince her well enough.

The only time she's
photogenic
is when she suffer-smiles,
(and she looks pretty damn gorgeous, too)
and she only thinks best in abstract, tilted logic
and disconnected adjectives.

Her life is music and writing and
you,
but she can never say it
in words embellish-less and
metaphor-proof enough
to explain.

She's a reader, a writer, a dreamer,
a fool;
but the false-brave need
to be needed, too.

And perhaps
someday
she'll find what she doesn't know
she's looking for,
and maybe she'll learn to
feel
again.

All's Left to Hoping

~

All those thoughts running through her mind
and she needs to get lost somehow, too
-one ticket to anywhere but here, please-
But like a good girl, she stays
and tells no one about all the
band aids and bubble wrap she wasted
trying to keep her stupidly fragile heart in place
-this side up, please take care of me-
but the frustrated brattinella in her
threw it down and stepped all over it
thinking maybe if her feet bleed, too,
her words would waltz into your thoughts
and then she could stay there for once.

Stuck

~

Well, she's never had the time
for any of the nice boys
needing only the one
who could wound her heart to pieces
and kisskisskiss it back together--
And her feet will only take her
as far from him as she can stand
without looking back for his approval--
'that was a nice try, baby; maybe
we'll try again tomorrow.'
So she'll let him coax her needs
into a dizzy suffocation
'til she finds another excuse
to start runrunrunning away
again.

Miss Mismatched Mess

~

She is cinnamon-speckled skin
that gets awkward tan lines at all the wrong times
and goosebumps only when it's cold.
She is dirty socks and tiny feet,
electriclumsy ankles
and legs made only to curl up to her chest.
She is an arched back and slouched shoulderblades,
bitten, bleeding lips, and fingertips
that only turn pages that smell as good
as their words taste on her
breath.

Curfew

~

it's ironic how seven rhymes with heaven
but really, for her it's hell--
a hell she tries to slow down
but she can never stop it, because
it's always going a little too fast--
and maybe she's only riding
on the wings of her own rushed inertia, but
breathless goodbye kisses aren't good enough
or even good
because there's nothing really good
about goodbye--

Tryhard II

~

she pirouettes clumsily,
trying to find grace
but
chipped nail polish
and
faded blue highlights
can only take your jetê so far.

~

Tryhard I

~

she tippy-tippy-tiptoes
on her unlaced combat boots
so her gum-gluey heels
don't fray the edges of
her mud-flecked cargo pants.

~

Bittersweet

~

Your kisses give me wild butterflies
that gnaw at the insides of my stomach
and catapult my heart into my throat

And so the words I need to say are stuck there,
caught between ripped heartstrings and bile.

Swiftly, your fingers lace through mine
heartlessly twisting my words around your lies
keeping me forever chained to your side

But as always you're the first to break away
and pointless tears drown in my bittersweet smile.
~
Your lips stained with fearlessness
poisoning me with intoxicating dreams
of forever, spun in quicksilver lies

And then my tears fall hard and fast and shameless;
broken sobs clinging to your tongue 'til they fade.

You leave me with no breath to spare
smothering yourself with my vulnerability
as the taste of you blurs away the world

And I cannot let my wretched self escape from this moment
as once again I let you steal me away.

~