This inspiration comes in waves

I wash away with violence

And kiss the shore again and again

Redemption, or playing pretend

What is your darkest secret?

Our eyes collide like a coastline

Or a car crash

An accident

Like you’re the serpent

What are you hiding?

You’re a skyscraper

And suddenly I’m obsessed with architecture

You rush through me like adrenaline

Motivate me

Sedate me

These words are caught in my throat

I - knew - you - were - trouble

What do you have to lose?

I am an assembly line

Enable, Terminate, Repent, Repeat

Do Not Ask Questions

I’m addicted to the most unorthodox things

Like depth, and intimacy, and coexistence

Overpower me

Devour me

Entrap me in a castle of ignorance

Make me the princess of innocence

If beauty is pain, I am a monster

One moment I am indestructible

One moment I am a force of nature

And the next, I fade away

I’ve moved on years ago. I moved on when it happened and I continue to move on and on and on and on.

But I can’t get over you.

I don’t think I ever will.

Fucker. 

Sometimes, remembering hurts. 

This is where I get all dark and twisty.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sleep.

I wonder if I got the guitar because I wanted it or because I wanted to fill the space.

I wonder if I will ever forgive, or if I will just forget.

I wonder if I will learn my lessons, or if I will continue to repeat the same mistakes over and over.

I wonder if I will learn to prioritize with my brain instead of with my heart, or my gut.

I wonder if I will ever find something real again.

I wonder if I deserve to. 

People do this, and I remember that I used to be one of those people. Now I struggle to even remember faces, let alone any details. You’re just a name, or you’re just a story—not even a memory. You’re a folk tale. You’re a lesson I might have learned in school once.

I wonder if I am cursed or blessed.

I miss the hopefully hopeless.

I miss the kiss and make up.

I know who I am and what I want. I know what I’ve been through and what I have to offer. I know what I bring to the table. I know what my destination is (not where or who, only what). I know what I want from you (general you).

I want so badly to be able to elaborate on this, to write myself out in words so clear that everyone who reads this will KNOW me. I also know that this is not possible, and I accept it for what it is.

I live a very quiet existence, one where I feel all of these feelings that make perfect sense, but the feelings don’t speak, they don’t explain themselves, and I can’t write them down. I sometimes envy those who can put it all on paper or canvas, while I struggle to answer a simple, “How are you?”

Although I lack eloquence and clarity, one thing is as solid and real as it’s ever going to be: I know me.

And the God’s honest truth (truth that is as honest as I can let myself be, truth that lets you into my soul) is that I believe that there is someone out there (someone that exists, with a family and friends and history and scars and stories) who wants to know me. I believe that, when it’s real, I won’t have to define myself in clear and easy-to-understand words. I believe that person will want to learn and want to understand.

I believe that things shouldn’t be so complicated. At the same time, I believe that things that are worth it are worth fighting for.

Here’s to wishful thinking. 

I want fingers like a piece of art

With the most beautiful imperfections

The center of attention for people like me

I have this thing about hands                         

I want to read your story on your palms

See if your head is aligned with your heart

See if your lifeline is as alive as you are

I’ll leave your line of fate to my imagination

Save the line of success for someone who cares

I want to know all of your calluses

If you bite your nails when you’re nervous

How tightly you grip during a handshake

If you fidget with things the way I do

If you clench your fists when you’re angry

If you’ve ever bruised your knuckles

If you believe in pinky promises

I want to know how you approach a lady

If you would kiss her on the hand

Or want to feel the curve of her waist

Or the texture of her hair

You can tell a lot about a person by their hands

So I want hands like a goddess

Soft, gentle, and delicate

I want to touch your face for the first time

I want to trace your features so I can remember

I want make you my human canvas with finger paints

I want to twirl my fingers through your hair

And impress you with my beautiful hands

But you can read a lot in someone’s hands

And the hands of an artist are never clean