I wrote poems about you before I knew anyone like you even existed
I didn’t love him.
But he loved the parts of me I couldn’t stand.
So we played house
Until I burt it to the ground.
Lipstick stained cigarettes and old bookshops will remind you of me even if you can’t remember what you’re remembering.
How can I be so empty
Yet feel so much?
You seem cold.
I’ve been this way for years.
You’re too young to say that.
I grow faster than most people expect.
You seem tragic.
I was born with it in my veins.
You’re awfully pessimistic.
I’m never disappointed this way.
You have scars on your wrist.
I used to be sad.
You’re not anymore?
I’m not as bad as before.
You look at him like he put the stars in the sky.
I believe he’s magic.
You’re more innocent than you let on.
I have to hold onto something.
You don’t have to pretend to be strong.
I won’t be pretending one day.
In my bed I hear her.
She calls my name so sweetly.
She performs shows with rubies and pearls.
But the rubies you see, have taken the colour from my bleeding veins.
The pearls, my milk teeth.
But the show is so captivating.
My blood looks better outside my body.
I beg to stay, but she sends me out of sleep.
I wake up to my disappointing reality.
I sat in the tub and drew a line down my wrist.
And the rubies fall down the pearl of the tub.
“Welcome home.” She says
He held the flower between his hands.
The flower wilted and bowed its head more and more.
He cried and tried desperately to make it stand again.
But the flower had tasted death and was ready to commit.