they say the average breath

contains ten sextillion atoms.

so try to think

of how many people have touched you

so deeply

you feel them in your labored heart

and know that they are right there

in your lungs,

keeping you alive.

Honest Opinion Time Guys

Should I submit this poem to my school’s publication? It’s not prestigious or anything, but I can say that I’ve been published technically because it’s an official collegiate publication.

My skin is parchment

and each time your fingers graze across flesh

you are reading my story—goosebumps like braille,

for I am unfamiliar to touch.

My skin is parchment

stained with scars like coffee rings

and birthmarks given to me by my mother

read between the lines—

the gaps of my ribcage.

Your nails are quills

scratching.

Write our story,

trace it on my wrists,

or behind my ears.

Write the epilogue

on the small of my back

so every time you place your hand there

you will read our happy ending.

You locked your door the way you set your mouth in a tight line, and the windows were boarded up, determined not to let the sunlight in.

So you looked inward and you lied in bed all morning and all afternoon, until you thought it would be safe to come out when no one was looking.

And when you opened your eyes you were so shocked at all the darkness around you, and scared, you stayed inside—stayed in bed hiding from your demons under covers.

You saw the night swallow up the streets and the tree lines and you thought that was all there was to the world.

You mistook this as the void you could never escape, when all you had to do was open the windows in the morning and see the sunrise.

I hope your favorite songs are ruined by memories of me.

You suck down a cigarette

As if you are a haunted house

And the smoke will cleanse you.

I wonder where the ghost is.

Does it hide in your lungs?

Do you feel it with each breath?

Is it entombed in your chest?

Does it rattle your rib cage,

Like the wind beating against windowpanes?

Does it ghost over your skin?

Leaving chills and bumps that

Threaten the shape of your spine.

Or is it all in your head?

People are always trying to label you

by your profession

or your lifestyle

all i want is to be called

a poet

because i think the world is beautiful

and sometimes the rain makes me cry

The nicotine is running through her like sage cleansing a haunted house.

The last thing I shall do before I study issss leave this for Les the queen of all that glitters.

title: tomatoes

pairing: SaucexLesxSandwich

Read More

Track Title: Send Me The Moon

Artist: Sara Bareilles

Album: Kaleidoscope Heart

Holding my breath
Last one I’ve got left
‘til I see you

Deliver my heart with the
Pieces and parts of me left
Every last day seemed to carry the weight
A life time
Watch from the ground
As the gold flutters down from the sky

NejixTenten


She’s silent where she sits, staring up at the night sky, to the point where he can’t help put check that her chest is still rising and falling.

Her best friend is the moon, and the way its light falls on the angles of her body remind him of blankets draped over shoulder blades.

My skin is parchment

Stained with scars like coffee rings

Read between the lines—

The gaps of my ribcage

Your nails are quills

Scratching

Write our story

Trace it on my thighs

Or behind my ears

Write the epilogue

On the small of my back

So every time you place your hand there

You will read our happy ending

My skin is parchment

and each time your fingers graze across flesh

you are reading my story—goosebumps like braille,

for I am unfamiliar to touch.

I have written with scars and birthmarks

given to me by my mother

How do you interpret me?

Ghosts.

I haunt myself. I pull the sheets over my head,

and long to finally rest.

We parted our lips as clothes gave in under fingertips.