i write best when i'm lying, in truth.
when my words are twisted & misconstrued
dripping between lips redder than mine a character
i've built up over time & i am not a poet but
i will always have words
i don't cry nearly as often as i say i do & sometimes
this feels like a salt-shaker right in the eye
& there are some days i open my mouth, blackholes for dinner but
i will always have my wit, my overdone jokes and my sick,
sick, lips. everything i have once belonged to someone else
my sister's name scribbled on the back of shirts & socks &
heads. though me & my brother will never say it we both
need to be better than something. i'm just as pathetic as
everyone else who's loved these people & he tells me in detail,
a list of people he's never loved back and i'm too afraid to
ask when i will join them because he's so much better
than anything i've had his voice the only thing i can
never put words to but he smells sweet & bitter at the same
time i want his hands everywhere & she only smells clean.
it's been months since this girl touched me & i hate her
for it & i wonder if she knows how many nights i spent
agonising if she remembers the last thing she really said to me
if she remembers the dress she wore. soon enough, i have to
run out of words for her but for now i dreamt she said baby
i'm sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry and it goes on for
a long long time & you wake up & cry yourself back into
the dark.

well, that's the end a day too late haha. thanks to all who read, or even just glanced at this. saying it means a lot seems pretty cliche but honestly i wrote this to write. i'll never be a poet and today is a day of embarrassing sincerity so bear with me, but i desperately want to be something so thank you for indulging me.