your love is king..

to hold your hands and feel the blood running through its warm, tangled veins, would be the sweetest touch. caressing the inside of the palm of your hands tracing every line and every patch of rough skin, running my finger around your freckles is perfection, perfection, perfection..

ughhhhhhhhh!!

samantha, i need to see you, let me hold your hand..

please..

i do not struggle in your web, because it was my aim to get caught..

lately, recently i should say i keep having trouble with reality. i find myself thinking if i am here, right now. today i woke up and thought it was monday morning. all, everything seems blurred. ever since this year started everything seems blue. my mood has gone to shit and taken my attitude with it. part of it right now is i'm a bit hurt by something that just recently happened to me. a friend of mine made me realize someone is/might/was fucking with my head and the little pieces of evidence keep playing in my head over and over. sometimes it feels as if i only dreamt this. everything related to this person. to make matters worse i haven't slept well since the new year started. i don't know if i'm actually writing this or not. i'm fucked up and i have no way out.

i can't pretend i don't need to defend some part of me from you..

i don't read instructions..

i can't take directions..

your face is all i see..

your hands all i feel..

i have nothing to offer..

but it was lovely falling at your feet..

you said i was ill and you were not wrong..

Why is it everytime i write, it seems i'm writing about you? it's automatic. if i'm writing one of my wannabe "tortured, sad, poems" they're all directed to you. Your name is in my head constantly and everything goes back to the last day i saw you and to this picture i found of you recently online. I can still hear your voice when i go back to when i was 15 and you were 17. i can hear what you would tell me. SPEAK! i can smell your odor and can feel your warmth when you came to school just out of the shower, i can see how clean your face was. all i write comes back to you. my organs are meant for you. it doesn't take much for me to see your small wrists, small hands with your bitten nails, your chipped nail polish or wrongfully painted finger nails. these things are in my brain as if they had happened yesterday. the scar you told me you got by "falling of a bike" when i knew before i even asked you it wasn't true. i don't know if it was a cutter a calling a cutter but it was definitely something calling something. i don't know you if you were calling me or if i was calling you but there we were, comparing scars, like a game. i never cut myself so much in my lifetime as i did in those two months. our game of cutting seemed to be to see who was more tortured, more deep inside the dark, shallow hole called life. my cuts were always more dramatic, being longer and done with a shard of glass, your were deeper since you did them with a blade and more hidden. You would win..

-"scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen.."

i've done that and i'd do more if you asked me to..

we had divine sense..

your chemicals inside my system, my brain moving in ways i never thought possible, the right side of my brain not catching up with the left side, coming in and out of reality. i grasped a bottle of beer tightly in my hand then would release only to find my hand moves slowly and by itself but it only goes a certain distance. the silhouette of a woman on a lamp post. how i can move my left hand faster than my right one at the same time. i'm more in touch with my body, my coordination seems to sharpen. the touch of someone is delayed, their touch not as strong, my hands numb, getting them slapped was the only way i knew i was actually standing there at that moment, in that place, with these people. it's like photography. like a film of photos, there's parts of it missing. it almost feels like a slide show. you body floating, your mouth dry, reality is insgnificant..