The Taste Of You

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I am frantically brushing my teeth at 3 in the morning trying to get the taste of your tongue out of my mouth, but I can only go so far before my gums begin to bleed and my teeth start to ache the way my spine often does under the heavy, heavy weight of your hands. You liked to place them on my back. My mother is sitting in the stairway, staring at the dim white light escaping from under the bathroom door, she’s going to ask me. Why?

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The Taste Of You

Infatuation, Empty| A Poem

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You make the sky blush
Irises erupting In shades of burning brown
Misery, in multitudes
Dripping from the cracks in your soul.

Unsettling truths that seem to shine through
Curtains of all your stories
Stitched in silk.

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Infatuation, Empty| A Poem

Us, An Anomaly

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I like messy notebooks blooming with paragraphs mismatched. Words etched on skin, raw, thought provoking metaphors breaking barriers with illuminating descriptions of the things we fail to disguise. Truth, highlighted by the ugliness of life. I like to write with the sole purpose of messing with your mind. I’ll take you down labyrinths constructed with walls that bleed my thoughts and watch the fear rise in your heart. Then laugh it off.

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Us, An Anomaly

Quarter Past Three

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Pocketed nightmares come to life in your presence, secrets spill like glasses of wine on mundane Sunday nights. Chestnut colored hair, cigarette sparks and shitty conversation starters. And I find myself at the edge of the world way too often, skyrocketing fears that dance in my head pulling at the feeble strings of my consciousness. The irony of the way I used to perceive the ordinary, sadly enough ignorance found a way out of my blood before I hit sixteen. I’d hate to admit it, but I was not grateful.

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Quarter Past Three

Crystallized Nights

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You grew up reading Shakespeare under streetlights and pale grey skies, celebrated and seemingly wise drunks like Hemingway were the occupants of your time. Polaroids in your pockets of warm days running into shops that sold records from the 90’s your friends never liked. Blueberry bubblegum sticky under the seats of your dads new car. He brought rage disguised in hugs of all the things you ever wanted. Bulbs of fluorescent green neon, sweatshirts that swallow your hands accompanied by dry skin and hefty frames of Harry-Potter-like-glasses. Acne, horrendous bangs and embarrassing yearbook photos leading you to messy desks abundant in thin yellow paper and black ink scribbles those you pray will one day hold more worth. So you tell yourself life is just beginning with hands that shake too much and lips that bleed between the force of your teeth, knees that turn the shade of a dull purple every once in a while and bruises that you couldn’t care less about. So you close your apparently very boring brown eyes and sit on your quivering hands and you tell yourself, life is just beginning.-H

Crystallized Nights

Labels, As I Perceive Them.

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Labels as I perceive them:

Labels can be an odd combination ranging from constricting air tight jars embedded with vague ideas of who you are or who you appear to be, then falling straight into classification of similar people to help alleviate friendships, blooming into concepts about your very being and boosting the process of self discovery, apparently.

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Labels, As I Perceive Them.