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dear sea, i fell in love with this boy, once. his eyes were the same color as yours, and his voice should have been recorded and played in seashells, it was so beautiful and soft. i was so deeply in love with him, i drowned. it was dark, and sort of warm, but more than that, it was beautiful. when the seaweed wrapped around my wrists, it was like his fingers when he grabbed my hands together in one hand and told me he loved me. i was seeing stars, and they were in his sad, lonely eyes. - dear trees, there was a boy, and he smelled like you. he smelled like beauty and sadness and being alone in your attic, with old boxes and shoes and a gi

If you're getting this letter, I'm already dead.  Either that, or that good for nothing Dr. Maynard just cheated me a bag of gummy worms to satisfy that sweet tooth of his.  But I'm getting away from the point.  So here it is:  you're the lucky bastard who's getting my heart.  Excuse the language, I'm not usually this rash, but hey, what's a dying girl to say?  Which brings me to my next question:  why do you need a new heart anyways?  Were you a murderer in your past life?  Do you have a bad soul or something that makes it so that your own heart won't w

1. this is for the fat girls, and the douchebags, and the fake bitches. this is for the middle children, the unattractive older brother, the coddled Jewish boys. this is for those who suffer from once-requited and unrequited love, for the kids who sit in the back; for the bus-drivers hauling dead dreams, singing hymns that stem from their hollowed-out stomachs. this is for the 3 year old poet, who speaks half-english/half-God; for the girl who loves somebody else, for the girl who cannot love somebody else, for the hard-working man who wants love but can't see past his 20-year-old regrets, for the boy who is fucking someone else, for m

I'm pouring my heart into a goddamn poem because I never could get the hang of pop songs and a part of you pours out of me in these lines (from time to time, every fucking time) and I guess Joni Mitchell knows how it feels, and she wrote about having lips like yours, and being at the bar, and drinking a case of someone. I've had a case of you - you leave me on my back, and you don't taste bitter, or sweet. You slip through my fingers. You make my skin feel like something else - reptilian. Cold. But I'm reading literature on how to lose, how to lose you, how to be, how to be the kind of person you don't want,                              

i got shy and forgot how to spell alleviation and forgot how to count to a thousand and forgot how many digits were in a google-plex. you got loud and remembered how to say hurt me and remembered how to be diaphanous and remembered how many things you could be taught. i got snow-blind and forgot how to fall in love the right way and forgot how to be a point of light and forgot the things that lovers taught me. you got stars in your eyes and learned how to survive with very little and learned how to be sorrowful and learned things no one needed to teach you. we got shy and forgot how to hold hands and fo

mama says pull down your sleeves they'll see, they'll see but no-one's even looking i say mama tigers are proud and strong and tigers show their stripes so today i'm a tiger and who says i can't be a tiger when razors made me fierce and secrets kept me lonely who says i can't tiger-roar when everything unsaid ripped my throat raw i made my stripes with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth so damned if i'm not a tiger and damned if i won't roar mama, i'm a tiger mama, hear me roar