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I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.

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He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.
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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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I am world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.
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You can’t tame a girl who has her head. In the clouds and one foot out the door.
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He calms my chaos and I fuel his fire. We are a match made between heaven and hell.
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And now I wander. Forever searching for the pieces of me I should have never given away.
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I write because suicide is no longer an option.
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You were a lifetime ago, yet here I am, still pulling pieces of you out of me.
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He was exactly like hitting a red light during a killer streak of green.
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The deepest pain I ever felt was denying my own feelings to make everyone else comfortable.
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Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.
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I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.
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Every now and then I roam the catacombs in my head and attempt to resurrect you, and make you shiny again.
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When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.
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The tide has pulled the storm from my soul again. But in all that is right or wrong and pure, there is you, and your stunning ability to blur the lines and just be.
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Oh my darling, you mustn’t fill up on memories alone, there is heartache and regret yet to be served.
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