“Your promises shatter like glass. Sliced nerves for every lie that travels from your tongue.”

What an intimidating kind of beauty a rainbow holds. Then of course, there’s the jealously dripping between vampirish teeth of those who dare mock it.

If I’m wrong about you, let’s face it instead of fading like tire marks swallowed by rain. Run me into the midst of a storm. Leave me to drown there.

Some days, my mind still flickers, but the light doesn’t stay on. Kind of like the hope I felt when your fingers squeezed my palm. But they simply call that a reflex.

Needle in a haystack, a small town on a roadmap, searching for you through the abstract- how incredibly hard to find.

If y’all like spooky season just examine my brain. It’s plastered across this page on display.

You ever stare at something so long the colors blend together? Even the most neutral tones take on a life of their own, fold themselves into shapes that morph into creatures – wolves and goblin.

When words tripped off the side of your grin, I felt the statement slip toward my ear like the slide of a skateboard on griptape – how it led me to hate a sport I’ve never even tried.

I wait and wait and wait and god I am sick of waiting. To not see your face anymore. To not know the burden that belongs to you. To not imagine the window I looked through the night I found out.

I am hurting. I am angry. I am one hundred and thirty-two synonyms of regret, but atleast its proof that I was here.

I wish I could bottle up this scent for winter days when it feels like this town will never see sun again.

The hardest part is when the leaves abandon the trees. I seem to always lose a part of me.

Don’t bother finding a soulmate. Your aunt tells you, your fluffy scrambled eggs are the best she’s had and dammit, you can enjoy those all by yourself. No need to share the wealth.

Indigo child, you hid secret under graves, picked at the lamb stuck between teeth, felt around for monsters we once reaped. But the monster turned out to be free.

Surely I could never be certain of how many stars I’ve counted in the sky or of how such tiny particles can be build into wild-eyed stories like Aquarius and Cassiopeia. I could read you as I would the constellations and never tire.

Write me as if I were already a poem. Pen the stanzas as if storms and ships could birth something sacred. Color it a religious experience.

There’s a mystery in you; a puzzle to solve- mystical elements to a love that you’ve longingly ached for.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising. I still believe that one can learn to play the piano by mail and that mud will give you a perfect complexion.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.

Instead of fulfilling the promise of infinite orgasmic bliss, sex in the America of the feminine mystique is becoming a strangely joyless national compulsion, if not a contemptuous mockery.

Consider your honour, as a gentleman, of more weight than an oath.

The oaths of a woman I inscribe on water.

Put more trust in nobility of character than in an oath.

Those who are inclined to compromise never make a revolution.

Violence has never prospered, you can’t remake the world in a day. Anyone who promises to change everything for you all at once is either a fool or a rogue!