Drunk Dial

I only want to talk to you when I’m drunk,
Which is a shame since I’ve been drinking since you left me here,
I always thought myself better than the sobbing, broken hearted girl,
But you knew just the right way to break me,
Crying, clinging to harmful thoughts. Self-destruction in all the right ways
‘What if I could have made you stay? What if you aren’t even worth it?’
Sometimes I wish I had never had the pleasure of discovering you,
The things that make love so easy and difficult in the same breath,
(Yet most times I don’t know who I’d be if not for you)
What if I was never meant for more than a single night of passion?
A series of endless, one-night stands, under the illusion of finding the right one?
This temporary lust comes back to me every time my lips touch the edge of a bottle,
And all I’m left is this confusion and a headache.

You didn’t wait long to find another warm body,
Does she know that you walked out with my heart? Do you know?
Maybe not my whole heart, no, that is far to guarded for you to touch,
But maybe a piece, maybe a little more,
Just enough for me to feel this ache; for me to wonder what happened to the idea of an imagined romance
For I had once been a romantic, probably still am despite all these set backs,
And I believed in the small gesture of love,
Ones that were apparently beneath you and your need to impress.
But that is another story, one filled with far less regression and alcohol.
Here I am once again, my lips wrapped around a bottle,
Half wishing my mind to drift away from these thoughts,
Half needing them to stay and find the closure you never gave me;
Yet always coming back to the way you left me needing more and regretting wanting any less than what is in front of me,
Caught me in this whirlwind, its only a matter of time before you come to realize your mistake, and maybe it isn’t your fault;
Maybe you truly cannot see the crack that set off the damage in me,
Maybe it’s my fault for not making sure you were able to handle me in my entirety,
But regardless, the damage is done and my lips have clung to the edge of this bottle for longer than I’d like,
So let me swallow the liquor and be done with it,
And soon you will be a drunken night, a hangover just waiting to be cured,
Than I will be able to wake from this drunken stupor you’ve put me under.

lovers like us

My thoughts have always be dark, twisted, sinful and erotic,
But that’s what makes the best story my dear, and mine and yours is so beautifully
written in my head,
That sometimes I forgot there are boundaries we need to remember,
Things that are and aren’t appropriate for lovers like us,
But that is perhaps a story for another day, one filled with reality and reminders
But for now, here are the thoughts of us that have never been made into reality,
Well, at least, not yet. I know we both feel the temptation,
I know I sound crazy, how can I cling to something that never was?
How can I crave the touch of someone I’ve never had, never felt in the ways the count?
The answer is simple; hope is such a dangerous thing my love, and my heart knows the dangerous of a temptation all too well.

So let us get back to this story of you, and me,
Where we can be what is felt, what is wanted and what is yearned for.
In my head, our joining is hot and heavy, filled with aggression and sighs of longing,
The kind of sex that makes me forget that I shouldn’t be wanting it,
The kind that has me blushing long after the tiresome deed is done.
In my head, it all plays off the way I need it,
Hot, heavy and leaving me grasping for the air I know I need to breathe,
Your hands on my thighs, gripping hard, leaving behind tiny bruises,
Because you love seeing your mark on my skin in ways that excite you,
But that’s nothing compared to the way you sigh in my ear,
The whimpers of “fuck” that dance along my skin; the whispers of yes and more, dear god do that again,
But the spell is broken right before I catch that mass of relief, the right moment, the thing I need the most from you.

So the fantasy plays on and on and on,
Always changing, yet the same desires remain.
Oh and I am an expert of wanting the things I can’t have,
That’s what’s makes the game all the more exciting.
And I’m left wishing the fantasy were made into a reality,
But that dream is for the wishing thinkers and those willing to ruin the good they’ve found.
So wish me luck, but I’ve never been the type for wishful thinking,
And I’ll hold onto the fabricated memory of the things your body could do to me,
Just bound the reach of the boundaries for lovers like us.

A life of Waiting

Every heaven is different from the last,
But I forget that my version of paradise isn’t the same as yours,
So I pray to hold onto this bliss a little while longer,
While my fate is sealed from the kiss of another sinner.

Graced with those lips on mine for a moment,
The gates close behind me, and I’m left in another’s paradise.
But you aren’t here. You haven’t been for a while now,
And it has me wondering, what happens to sinners who don’t repent?
Where will I find you in this version of the afterlife?
Will you be here waiting for me, or must I wait a lifetime to find you again?

Life goes on, as I’ve been constantly reminded, and the gates stay closed for decades,
centuries, who’s to say?
I wait and wait and wait until all I know how to do is to build a life of waiting,
Waiting for you, a chance, waiting for us to be…more.
But that version of heaven has yet to cross my closed eyes,
And this sinner is left waiting once more for a redemption that hasn’t been prayed for.

I never thought I would grow tired of finding you, but,
Waiting is hard…the hardest thing I’ve had to bare,
Alone, wishing for an easier path path of roses and gold,
But, that was never a meant to be for us, never a song to be sung, or even a wish to be granted,
Sing me a  jaded hymn once more, let me find you buried among the restless,
Or whatever could be you.
Ever heaven is different from the last,
But I know my version of paradise will never be the same as yours,
So kiss me goodbye for the thousandth time, again and again. And we wait and wait and wait…

*Image does not belong to me*

Of Dead Poets Tales

Pretty songs only sound romantic to those who find beauty in words written in memory of others,
Full of love and sweetlings and sentiments that make the heart weep.
Our story is the stuff made of dead poets tales,
Forbidden, longing and just out of reach for a pair of destined hearts.
Some say Romeo and Juliet is a tale of passion and love,
Two hearts so intertwined that not even blood feuds and death could keep them apart,
but I know the more cautious tale,
A love that takes and takes and takes, so don’t remind me the price of love
For the cost is way to high for an open heart like mine.

But this heart will still continue to bleed out for you,
Beating strongly only when in your presence,
And I swore I had told myself to stop these silly feelings,
Nothing good can come from a heart wrapped up in fantasy and romance
But she has other plans, and my head can only shake in disbelief.
So she plays and plays, tempting the devil,
Feigning shock when she is burned more then once,
Wanting what is absurd and unobtainable,  so I simply jump in the dark.
But isn’t that what love is? A leap of faith, a shot it the dark, a terrified chance?
I let her take her chances with men and women, who never end up being what they
And try to remain optimistic (but my heart has become so jaded, so distrustful. I even
miss the days of fantasy and romance)
Watching as each failed attempt is as tragic as a Shakespeare original.
And I laugh because that is the only thing I can do now,
For I have learned not to question what the heart wants.

My One Night Stand

Baby, call me a glutton, call me a tease,
But I can’t help it; I always seem to invite disaster in with open arms.
I know I shouldn’t play with fire,
But it gets so cold by myself at night and I know you could be the body next to mine.
If only for the night, in the very least; I know this game I play with myself is nothing short of dangerous,
And you are not worthy of anything of mine, at least, not anymore,
But I just can’t seem to help this need to self-destruct,
The drama intoxicates me until all I can see is my next high,
Whether with you, or the next someone to toy with my emotions.
Yet, I still cling to this illusion of romance and lust and wanting.
Knowing that it’s been too long and too much has happened for it to mean anything,
But I still cling and cling and cling, hoping I’ll latch unto any semblance of morale.
This always sounds better after the liqueur has entered my bloodstream,
And I am too far-gone to consider anything else,
So let me say this while I still can,
You will and always will be awful to me, you’ll use me, but I am not better,
And together we can fall into bed knowing what we expect out of each other,
And still be blinded by our own delusions.

tick-tock goes the clock

Its time to deal with the things that haunt me in the present,
Try to bury them with the other demons from my past.
I’m only as strong as the things that define me,
But darling, this silence is piercing, stopping me from taking the first step.

Time has a funny way of exposing the truth to us,
Sometimes it is a steady reveal, others come crashing down at the worst times,
Because it’s the things in the moment we can handle,
We’re forced to face them head on, it’s the only thing we can do.
It’s what comes after those silent, halting seconds that terrify us,
That root us in fear, doubt and shame. Frozen in that singular moment.
So tick tock goes the clock,
Not caring what damage it causes, only knowing it must move forward,
With or without all the smiles of their faces.

I can never tell when I start adjusting my reality,
Can never see anything outside side of “what do I do now?”
So I sink to the ground, holding my heart, hollowed eyes shedding twin regret,
And in the aftermath I call for you,
Shout and scream and weep for a presence other than my own,
For you to come at my most desperate hour,
Only to be greeted by that defining silence.

my skin is made of ink and bone

My skin is made of ink and bone,
Covered in ivory, laced in a poison of steel and grace,
Ready to feel and yell, to know what it means to be alive.|
Let me tell my story, as I bleed it onto the pages,
Scattered and torn but still legible to the right pair of eyes.
Let me know that it’s okay to feel things like rage and sorrow and pity,
Let my skin be torn and sown, ripped apart and mended all at the touch of another.

After everything, emotions drawn and torn from me in a silent cry
Let me rest easy in the darkness I’ve created.
No smothering, no chaos, just the thoughts I’ve tried to run from, and me.
Let me face them head on,
Give me the strength to change them and the voices that scream at me from inside.
Only then will I split and change, forming a new version better than I am now,
Buried in the ashes of the fallen monsters and shrapnel
Pray you find me among the rubble.

My skin is made of ink and bone,
Sharp and permanent, forever haunting,
Mixed with the chaos of beauty and the saving grace of Lucifer.
Let me show you what it means to be alive,
For I have felt it all within my emotions and the pages I’ve bled into.
Powerful words stolen from a hollow prayer,
Your lips lingering, kissing the scars you’ve left deep in my skin.
Know that you created a beautiful tragedy,
And she will forever be in your debt,
My skin is made of ink and bone,
Covered in ivory, laced in a poison of steel and grace,
She has been through hell and back with me, clinging to all the damage and
magnificence life has already offered.