My eyes are grey, but not the kind of grey that you know.
Depression casts a shadow over them,
twirling darkness around me under a familiar moonlight-
the fever of alcohol still lingers in the air.

I taste bitterness the way I taste your words-
lips hesitant to sing hymns masking insanity more evident than my own.
My heart is vulgar sheet music to suicide letters,
and my blood was a silhouette against its paper canvas.

Sometimes I think that, once I realize a sunset is the same as a sunrise,
I’ll sift through your teasing ‘hello’
and reach out for its hidden ‘goodbye.’
But still,

your words build walls.

You took my body, broken wings and all, and rebuilt me from the
bottom-up
with hands as masterfully delicate as an artist’s.
You were like verbal calligraphy-
filling me with the reminder of of unkempt secrets and forgotten promises.

But what does a promise mean when made to a monster?

You asked me to write you a love poem
but my pencil forms fumbling sentences,
chipped on the edges like barbed wire.
I can merely hold the weight of my own demon’s hands.

But I will say that your touch expels the air from my lungs
and tricks my mind into thinking it understands love.
How easily you manipulate my feeble heart.

I cannot tell you ‘I love you’ unless I am lost;
I struggle with saying words that I don’t know the meaning to. 
But now, just because when I speak, I stumble,
doesn’t mean anything you say is the equivalent of a mumble.

My thoughts are loud,
unlike my heart,
it does not have a ribcage to keep it silent.

So I’ll test out words,
experiment with metaphors,
dabble in allusions,
anything that I can make sense of.

I will pick happiness from endless acres of trees
and plant positive thoughts in your mind like I’m a bumblebee,
give you almost any words in the world you want to hear
except three-

because I don’t need to.

Your worth isn’t measured,
it doesn’t have an expiration date,
it’s given to you.
You have worth.

And I will give you all the wisdom in the world until you realize it, but,
medicine doesn’t do all of the healing.
I may taste like mediocre aspirin,
but that doesn’t do much for your mind- or your heart.

Broken bones are easily fixed but broken words come at a cost.
And the tools to repair a crumbling heart are expensive.

But please, don’t let that hold you back.
Be reckless.

Taste people that will poison you,
watch things that will rot your mind,
sing about falling grenades,
and dance in the ashes. 

We are given free-will, so let’s use it wisely.

Oh, and by the way, I know I never wrote you a love poem.
All I have is
this.