Sweet N o t h i n g s

i'm ripping apart and i'm breaking at the seams

i'm forwards backwards falling

and i'm drowning in my dreams

there's blood on my breasts and
a weight on my chest and
when i breathe in,
my heart takes a  r e s t.

it stutters and i struggle
and heave the air back out
for the hummingbird-beat
that I can't cope without.
and so i'm left gasping,
stopping starting  p a u s e.

love letters.

You write to her every day. Sometimes it's little things, like "You're the loveliest person I've ever seen". But some times, you write pages and pages. Word after word spilling out of your heart, bleeding out red ink onto the lines of your torn notebook paper. Sometimes, if you think she might like one of them, you fold the page into an envelope and slip it through the slats of her locker.

Tape it to the top of her desk.

Wrap it around her water bottle at lunchtime, when her back is turned.

You always scribble a heart on the peak of the envelope, forcing the heart to split in half once she opens it. Lets her break the crease on your ever-quiet heart, lets her hear the words you're too petrified and too mystified to speak aloud. 

The Fictional Church of The World Wide Web

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
Well, not really.

I don't actually want forgiveness from anyone's father, and I fully intend on being a sinner for the rest of my foreseeably odd life. But I want to make a confession, and like any American, I've been conditioned by the media that all confessions must be preceded by that timeless phrase.
So.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.