“I love you I’m just trying not to wear my heart on my text messages.”

You were the best and worst nights of my life fucking while the flames lick us at least you’re a distraction from my spiritual death. You’re a god damn angel in a crack den.

I am a woman writer the last thing I am is weak.

Your silence speaks in waves I am trying to not drown in my own thoughts let alone yours.

And when I pour myself unafraid like the shatter had a purpose I become the wave.

I gave names to all my disorders to humanize the pain.

You were poetry in a dark hallway whispering to know me in a psychotic way the way your neck tattoos straddle my throat I’m envious of every girl you’ve ever known.

Talking to you wrecks me because it is a glimpse into what I could have had if only.

Dry throat on the days I’d rather just watch the candle burn.

I want my cake and to eat it too but bulimia runs rampant and she is a fucking bitch.

If nothing else you have inspired me to write beautiful poetry if nothing else I bring words to the table with me.

Loneliness has taught me more things about myself than love ever has.

We are survivors we glisten in the sun for all the nights I died alone I did not know another woman carried my song and it is beautiful now look what we have become.

We live in a society where I am a crazy bitch for going to any lengths to keep you away from me.

Writing spiteful poetry in a chapel I realized I have to love you no matter what you do.

I do not want my worth to be centered in men with fangs for teeth I do not deserve to be degraded in a leather seat my worth is powerful you will never take that away from me.

Can anybody hear me? Are my words going to waste I need to believe there was a purpose to all the pain?