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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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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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

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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Headspin

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Coiled so deeply in the beds of our misfortunate teenage lives as depression hangs from dark grey skies and I just want you to be alright. And I know you’re just looking for a high that can make you forget the need to jump from your bedroom window on the fourth floor just so you can hear the crack in your bones when they successfully split into two against the concrete as rose red fills up the gaps in the sidewalk.

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I’ll Sleep On The Floor

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I said I’ll sleep on the floor tonight. With Bon Iver playing from the vinyl on the top of your bookshelf. I turn my head to face the mason jar filled with “reasons to live” I scribbled with my trembling left hand at four in the morning when I thought I’d lost you to the flame colored crimson blood on your arms. And I told you I’d write you a song, a poem hell I’d even write a book for you but you didn’t need my words you needed so much more.

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Sick Boy

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I can still see it clearly, tree trunk arms heavy with muscles glowing in rage.
A compass leading into the depths of irrationality, the city is filled with friends of friends and faces dipped in familiarity yet the streets keep leading me to dark hair lined by streaks of dusk and high cheekbones glossy under the summer sun. Jade green veins popping up from underneath your skin just below the wrist, forming maps of places I could never get to know. Turbulent voices laced in confidence but I could tell when it cracked falling low reaching for the ground gazing into the dirt with eyes that screamed of superiority closeted fears of rejection and loss of love yet to be found.

As skyscrapers of guilt so easily slept beneath a heart so bleak, clouded with fractures of repressed emotions waiting to be set free as you stand in line trying to fulfill youthful desires. Don’t forget who you are, who you used to be.
It’s never too late to late to take a dip into reality, muffled sounds and beaten down arms that beg for your return. It’s never too late to open your eyes.-H