Tag: move on

your name on my tongue 
(the only fruit i will not eat)
is overripe,
no longer sweet– past it’s prime
and overdue– 
my heart no longer aches for you.

your name on my tongue doesn’t taste like anything anymore // a.s.m

there are no words that i could write
to fully repaint that summer night:
the grass deep green, the sky blood red
the thoughts of death flooding my head

the ghost of your warm hands in mine
mem’ries of green eyes and lips of wine
the only thing i wanted to do
was tangle myself back up in you

i sat and watched the city lights
the day slowly melting to night
the way the moon shone– like your face–
drowned the city lights in grace

you left no beauty when you went
my mind gone numb, my heart left spent
i lost control, then came the tears
alone with all my greatest fears

those tears i shed, the guilt i felt
can’t change the cards that i’ve been dealt
and with each step your face will fade
one day i’ll breathe without you, unafraid.

it’s true, i still think of you: but i am getting stronger without you and soon you’ll fade // a.s.m

I am so tired of having to try so hard to make you happy, only to lose myself in the process.

If I cannot make you happy simply by breathing, perhaps I cannot make you happy at all.

if you really loved me, i wouldn’t have to try so hard to make you happy: a person who loves you will be overjoyed simply because you are alive // a.s.m

Rehab

I’d shoot you up,
swallow you whole with
a glass of orange juice
in the morning—
inhale you
during my lunch breaks.

I thought that I needed you. 

Now my sheets are drenched
in all the words you’ve ever said and 
my eyes roll back to replay
your smile until it distorts
into a sneer.
And I can smell your sweat. 
I can taste your lips. 
I can taste the milk going sour. 

You are leaking out of
the bullet holes—out of
all of my pores—but
I know this
is part of getting clean.