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art form.

there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.

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#fromthedraftsfolder

the problem with knowing exactly what you want
is that you can’t special order love,
you can’t design it the way you want,
you can’t make anyone love you.
there’s no special drink you can chug,
no spell you can cast, no amount of magic
will make him like you, love you, want you.
and no matter what…

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#fromthedraftsfolder

nostalgia tastes like coffee and donuts
at 2 am on a weekend;
it’s a warm beach and sand and a kite,
that refuses to fly vertically;
it’s a wal-mart at 3 in the morning,
and pizza and a brown fouton.
it’s the taste chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked or boxed.
nostalgia is a dangerous thing, especially,
late at night when it’s raining.
it feels like the perfect
head to chest ratio.

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anxious bitch.

my brain is screaming at me to run,
to get the fuck out,
telling my heart to race,
making my insides feel like
some kind of shit soup
but i can’t allow myself
to fall into that trap.
i have things to do
i have people who depend on me
to keep my shit together.
so i will smile appropriately,
i will write shitty poems
and eat m and-fucking m’s
and keep my shit together.
fuck you, anxiety.

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ghost

even the chaos doesn’t distract me enough,
a hundred thousand questions can’t stop me
from torturing myself.
i wanted you.
i wanted you in the way that an addict
wants that hit of whatever gets them
the heaven they think they want.
i wanted to bury myself inside of you,
burrow right into your soul.
i wanted to see what made you,
the good, the bad, the things you hide.
i guess,
in a way,
i did see all that shit.
the light, the dark, the depth,
just, that’s all i could get.
just a view in from the outside,
i hope you are well,
and i hope that you really are as beautiful
as i made you out to be,
inevitably, i’ll think of you,
this isn’t goodbye,
it’s not a see you later,
it’s a graveyard epitaph,
for a living ghost.

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just lie to me.

Just one more fuck up.
Tell me one more lie –
I’ll believe it.
You don’t even know.
You don’t even know.
I’ll fake it so good.
You won’t even know,
that I know,
that you’re lying.
Tell me you want me.
Tell me how beautiful I am
with these goddamn tears
dripping from my eyes.
Touch me like it’s the first time.
Touch me like you want me,
forever and fucking always.
For the love of God,
lie to me, please.
Hold me so tight,
that I’ll believe you won’t leave.
Lie to me so good.
Swear, I’ll believe it.
Take me.
Take all of me.
Take my things.
Just please, don’t leave.
Stay.
Please stay.