“He may never slay a dragon but he will grow old with you begging for death to leave you alone.”

Some nights I wish I could slip into her skin and wear her flesh only to feel his touch.

And you broke me in all the ways I loved you.

She’s a daughter of the healers in Salem and even tho her wings are scorched she still chooses to do good.

I cannot tell if it is a blessing from an old god or lovely dark art only that he holds my heart.

And you will always be my most beautiful someone.

And his rough hands upon my porcelain skin had me howling at the moon.

And every time I care I die a little.

There are parts of me that beg him to devour all of me.

The art of harvesting pain – poetry.

Poetry is not a cure for sadness but it makes the pain bearable.

I’m laying bare still untouched by the hands I crave completely taken by words.

You didn’t need to make her cuts this deep.

She dances barefoot through the smoke upon ashes from a broken world  – she is hope.

A loving reminder at least we are lonely together.

Steal back your heart – self-love.

And then I understood you were never my rescue yet always my escape.

To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already 3 parts dead.

I believe that when I die I shall rot, and nothing of my ego will survive.

The world is not better off without you so stay.

Your birth may be common, But death must be history.

She greets death with a curtsy.

Patriots always talk of dying for their country but never of killing for their country.

My flowers rot beneath my bed. I was too selfish to part with them. I hope their deaths don’t bring hexes. Did I say flowers? I meant my exes.

I hope to arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk.