heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

He puts his hand on my leg, stares at my lips and dryly asks,
“So what’s your favorite color?”
I stare straight ahead,
smile like I knew this wasn’t coming
and I say “black” so softly that he hardly hears me.
I lean forward,
my voice nearly a whisper.
“What do you think happens to people when they die? Is there more? Is there more?

There has to be more.”

Dates With Boys That Don’t Love Deeply // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
One day I will realize
what I had.
I will realize that
you gave me
the fucking world
and I will realize
that I threw it away
because I wanted whiskey
and cigarettes
to make my hands shake
instead of you.
I tried to kill my sadness
by tearing myself apart,
and I’m sorry.
God, I’m so
fucking sorry.
I can’t remember
the last time we
were really in love,
but I do remember
that we were.
I remember our three
hour long phone calls
and the way you said
you loved me with
conviction.
I’m sorry I always tasted
like vodka and apologies
and I’m sorry that some days
I was too cold to touch.
I’m sorry that
although I tried to give
you the world,
it was never much.
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
He is a sinner in white,
a cross around his neck
with hands steady from
eighteen years of praying.
Nights are spent with
lighters burning crosses
into flesh,
Sunday mornings
in pews instead of
backseats of cars,
lips pressed against
confessionals instead of
my neck,
whispering, I’m sorry Father,
but I can’t stop sinning.
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
It’s midnight.
There is a silhouette of you on my wall,
the outline of my lips on your jaw.
This is not a movie.
There is no flickering of a projector,
no audience of seven sitting four rows back from a screen wider than their eyes.
You’re seventeen again,
with a heart like a fireplace
and hands that feel like home.
They ask how I know it’s love,
why I’m so sure it’s not a summer
spent beneath warm stars
and beneath the window fan
in your childhood bedroom.
You kiss me on your mother’s couch
and I don’t feel lonely when
I crawl in my own bed at night.
It has to be.
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

I. Here it is: painting self-portraits in black and blue and swallowing razor blades so when I choke, something other than your name comes out. 


II. Here it is: falling asleep in beds that aren’t mine and leaving hotel rooms before sunrise. 


III. Here it is: nights spent swallowing seven shots and calling it pride, calling it a reason to dial your number and tell you I’m still in love with you.

IV. Here it is: calling you from a stranger’s front porch when it’s Sunday night and he’s calling me by the wrong name.

V. Here it is: staring at sidewalks and wondering how long it would take before I found myself on your doorstep.

Vl. Here it is: knowing that I can’t run into your arms again, knowing I can’t breathe you in.

VII. Here it is: being okay with that.

The Seven Stages of Moving On // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
I love my boney knees and star- shaped scars
and the way my tongue gets tied behind
a crooked smile.
I love the way I spit fire and have dandelions growing in my empty chest.
He says, what do you love?
I say, I am in love with the hands that hurt me.
I look down.
They are my own.
Loving Myself For All The Wrong Reasons // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)
We were something once.
I think we called it love.
I think we called it fate.
I think we signed our love letters
with promises of forever.
I think you held your cigarette
in your left hand
and me in your right,
but it’s getting harder to remember
what color your eyes were
or the way you blew smoke towards the sky and closed your eyes.
You carved poetry into my ribcage
and I let you,
and I think I laughed as you
left similes and metaphors
on my panting tongue.
I think it was love.
It’s Hard To Remember // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Hi guys, enjoy 15 seconds of me singing. Please no hate, I know it’s not the best.

I love my boney knees and star- shaped scars
and the way my tongue gets tied behind
a crooked smile.
I love the way I spit fire and have dandelions growing in my empty chest.
He says, what do you love?
I say, I am in love with the hands that hurt me.
I look down.
They are my own.
Loving Myself For All The Wrong Reasons // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
He died on the outskirts of Romania with pages of a bible pressed between his lips. There was no moment, no glimpse of what was, no preface of what would be, only the darkness that would lie behind his bloodshot eyes for the rest of eternity, though no longer sure if he was staring at his eyelids or the casket beneath six feet of dirt. He had fifteen years behind him, and surely too many before him that would never be spent next to fires and under the warmth of a million stars that disappear much too quickly and much too soon.
Souvinirs and Death Certificates // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

1. The first boy that compares your eyes to hurricanes and says you have hands that feel like home is not the one.

2. You can drown yourself in as much alcohol as you’d like, but the ghosts in your bones will still know how to swim long after you forget how to.

3. If you love him to the point of madness, you will become it.

4. The first boy to tell you that you have lips like a wildfire will be the first to burn you down.

5. Don’t try to fill your lungs with the ocean in your chest and call it self-defense.

6. Don’t be afraid to spit the venom between your teeth. It was put there for a reason.

Reminders To My Sixteen Year Old Self // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet