The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

When I look at you, all I can see is what we were supposed to be. I think of all the things you told me, all the promises you made, and I wonder what it was about me that made you decide I wasn’t worth it. Some morning I wake up and look in mirrors and think my body will never be beautiful, it can’t be holy, not since you touched it with the intention of leaving. I don’t think I’m worth loving. You stole me from myself, and I don’t know how to get myself back.

you kinda owe me a lot. you owe me my time I’ve spent on days and weeks trying to make you realize that I’m what’s best for you. you owe me my patience I’ve lost with every conversation we had about weather or not we fitted together. you owe me every single tear you stole from me while I tried to wipe them away before I caught myself thinking about you. and you owe me every single thought I spent on you while you were out having no idea that I was gonna charge you for everything that you’ve taken from me. but then again, everything you took, was given to you without even thinking about how empty I would be afterwards. all I cared about was you and I completely forgot to make myself a priority too.

let me tell you something:

no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered

and think -

damn, you are beautiful.

no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and

assemble them into a beautiful whole.

hell,

you won’t even look at yourself and think -

I made broken look beautiful.

you know why?

because all those writers lied to you.

yes,

all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and

blood dripping down chins,

pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like

hurricanes.

liars.

so you and i,

we are going to make a plan.

you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror,

you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you

but still writes about you.

here is what you are going to romanticize instead:

you are going to romanticize the first day of spring,

its gentle hands all over your body,

lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.

you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,

no hurricanes,

but sunshine that builds you up from within,

that helps you make it through the worst days.

you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend

in yours,

telling you that it is going to be okay.

because it is.

and don’t trust poets,

we’re no good,

we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality -

there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and

empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.

you know what is beautiful, instead?

the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile,

scars and all.

music that makes your soul flow like a river,

books that offer comfort,

families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,

friends that give you strength when you can find none,

lovers who make you laugh through tears.

baby,

from now on

you are going to romanticize healing;

honey dripping down your fingertips,

August nights that stick to your skin,

the day you find your purpose,

long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.

bad news:

no one is coming to save you.

good news:

you can save yourself

I promised to carry your lonely heart but my arms are weak

you ask me for my honesty

but I’m a coward who likes your company

so I stare into your bloodshot eyes

telling you transparent lies

You’re still okay.

Even when your eyes prick with tears,

And when your lungs are closing in.

When your smile is stretching,

While your heart is shrinking.

When your loved ones race the wind in leaving,

And you’re sitting alone with your shadows entrapping you.

You are okay when your whole world is crumbling apart,

When your wings are breaking.

You’re still okay when you’re fighting,

Even though you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

That doesn’t stop you.

That’s how you know,

You are more than you give yourself credit for.

You are what makes you okay.

I’ve decided to let the fire die out. I no longer feed the flames with every tiny twig I can find, as if I was preparing to burn you at the stake. Judgement is not mine to crucify. Instead I shall extinguish with all the bolstering fortification I can locate, until every last ember has been cooled enough to pick up and dispose of. Properly.

If you tell yourself a lie long enough, you start to believe it.

So you better start lying to yourself right now,

keep telling that battered heart of yours that it will learn to love again.



Start whispering to your tired and wounded soul,

that it will hurt like hell but you can get through this, you will heal.

silence is the kind of space I can’t explain.

it’s a space where a universe can be created to separate two souls from ever uttering a word.

it’s a moment where two beating hearts speak to each other in Morse code.

it’s the gradual destruction of the word soulmate.

it’s the breaking of a heart while the other questions,



why?

I am writing this because I am too much of a coward to tell you this in person. You and I both know I am poor with words, and even poorer with actions. I am writing this because I’ve been harboring heavy emotions, emotions that I’ve always wanted to display unto you, but have been prohibited by my nature from doing so. Do not let these words scare you – continue reading and listen to the contents stored inside my heart.



I love you.



But to me, those words sound so bare. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve you. To deserve such a selfless, ethereal soul. To deserve your arms wrapped around my waist, and your lips upon my own. I am so thankful.



My favorite days are when I’m graced with your presence alone. My favorite days are when you’re driving and I looking out the window and look back to you with your fingers interlaced with mine. Everything you do, I cherish. From the way your eyes disappear when you smile, to the way you bury your face and sleep. It’s been seven month already, hasn’t it? Since we first confessed our feelings to each other?



But I’ve always felt this way.



I want to make it up to you.



When you come home after a long day, I’ll massage your aching body and take care of you. When you’re sick, you won’t go a day without seeing my troubled face constantly asking how you’re doing. I’ll take you to places we’ve never been before. I’ll make everyday exciting, like the way my heart fluttered when we shared our first kiss.



Most of all, I want you to be loved. I want you to feel like we were fated to be together. I hope you understand that my words may be limited, but my emotions and feelings for you are sincere. Everything about you, I adore. I fall for. I treasure.



I loved you, I love you, and I will love you.

If you really,

Think about it,

Words are just noise;

Nothing but clumsy syllables,

Strung together,

By the mouth.

And promised to mean something,

By the mind.



Words are just noise.

Sounds,

Made up,

And fabricated.

The world is full,

Of noise.

So when,

You look at me,

And you promise me,

Or you swear to me,

That you will never hurt me,

Again,

Know that all I hear,

Is noise.



The clumsy syllables,

Are strung together,

And they don’t mean anything.

They come apart at the seams,

And they fall into the song,

You sang for me,

And the ambient background,

Of the world.



And I play our song,

Over and over in my head.

The melody your words created,

And the harmony my head fabricated.



Words,

And your promises,

My love,

Are just noise.

I keep hearing that “love is a verb”.



People say that words mean nothing when it comes to love.



As if I looking into your eyes and telling you means nothing.

You won’t believe it unless I do something. A grand gesture.

That laying my soul on the floor for you isn’t enough.

Tearing open my heart and having the ink spill out of me, as



I write you the most beautiful letter, rewritten 100’s of times, taken months to configure - that can’t be love, love apparently, isn’t words.



Because actions speak louder than words, correct?



Unless I shout it from the rooftops,

Unless I buy you every flower that blooms, peonies, in every color that exists, blue, pink perhaps white..



Unless I buy you a ring with “ I love you” engraved around the circle of your finger, then I know you love me.

Does that mean you love me? Does that mean love is true?



I can’t help but think that has nothing to do with love.



Look me in my eyes, and tell me why you love me.



Use your words, your body, your touch.



You can move in with someone, that could just be a test.



Does that lead to a diamond and a future of happiness and success?



Will he love you when you no longer look like you? When the wrinkles peek in, and you’re too tired to make love, and all you can do is say it?



love is looking at me and knowing what I was feeling.

love is laying together, in silence.

love is meeting me at the ambulance & hospital.

love was the way we talked all night till the sun came up

love was in our eyes.

you didn’t have to buy me the world, or a blue box -



Tulips were a beautiful touch I must say.

but love was when you drove out of your way.. to see me. It was when we went to the arcade and played in Pacman.

the feeling, the connection, the indescribable way we always find a way back.



So our love wasn’t just a verb, our love wasn’t superficial, our love was the ones in movies, written in books, the one we keep our eyes closed to keep it alive.

our love was the way we selfishly broke each other.. because time wasn’t on our side.



our love was more than a verb.

Dear heart,

Please be silent,

I don’t want you beating so loud,

And tell the whole world the way I feel about him,



Dear heart,

Please stay still,

I don’t want you to break my chest,

And go wandering into his heart,



Dear heart,

I love him,

But let this just a secret between us two,

You and me.

I hate small talk.



I wanna talk about atoms, death, aliens, sex, magic, intellect, the meaning of life, faraway galaxies, music that makes you feel different, memories, the lies you've told, your flaws, your favorite scents, your childhood, what keeps you up at night, your insecurities and fears.



I like people with depth, who speak with emotions from a troubled mind.

I want my lungs to inhale

until my spine cracks open

for caring too much



I need to tame the butterflies

in my nervous stomach



Lover, I'm grasping for courage

in the crevices of your knuckle bones...



and my breaths are becoming more ragged



My chest is too much a warning sign to be wild

but you are planting dandelions in my clavicle



I shouldn't be afraid of settling into your arms.



There are song birds whispering

encouragements down my hairline

and I am so close to joining in



Lover, I must forsake my guardedness

in order to make a home of your hands



My heart is an original moonbeam

with too many paper folds

and it's time I learned to live with the creases



Let me show you how soft I can be:



One by one, I am unfastening the padlocks

on my lips and becoming a skeleton key



Lover, I have been trying to tell you that

there is a kind of paradise in the way our

fingers meet together



You are painting new horizons in the moonlit parts of me



and I am rummaging for hope inside your

honey-sweetened mouth



I don't want to be frightened of you leaving



Lover, allow me to untangle the past from

your pockets and make spare change

out of the future



The truth is nothing is for certain



But here we are, right now, so why not

make the most of out what we have?



There is so much potential resting between

our shoulders and you went over to grasp it



Lover, I would rather Galileo your eyes for

a moment than live an eternity of more

empty nights



You may have had a sucker punch past

and I'm sorry for the bruises left under your

pale skin



but I am not placing impossible promises on your brow



I am planting this moment inside your palms

Doctor, please I am hurt. Near death some may say, and yet there seems to be an absence of blood. Thick red does not pour from my hands in cascading waterfalls and yet my body seems to have become a numb vessel of incomprehensible pain.



Therapist, please my mind is troubled. Near psychologically, irreversibly damage some may say, and yet the neurotransmitters communicate flawlessly. A paragon of intertwining muscles and contradicting lobes compose the machinery of my brain, and yet as I concentrate with my whole intelligence I seem to identify voices nagging me of my inevitable failures.



Black pen, I plead to you. Signatures upon cream forms diagnosing my state.



White gloves, I beg of you. Deliver into my slippery palms vibrant pills containing miraculous and curious cures.



Medication with angry side effects; merciless prescriptions of fiery life illnesses.



Please, anything that will rationalize the mystery of myself.

When we were little, we shouted to the hills and valleys, and heard our voices come back to us. Our mother would tell us our guardian angels were shouting back. But then a big brother or father would say no, its just our echoes. Besides being overly scientific. they just had to set things straight. Men are like that. We would yell out to the canyons again, and turn our ears to the rocks so we could hear the shouts come back to us. Back and forth, it was our game.



When we grew up a bit, we learned it was only sound bouncing off the hills and rocks. No angel was out there, and if we shouted a question, it wouldn't be an answer that came back.



Now we're grown up a bit more. And our ears strain to hear someone return our "i love you" with "i love you too." But its a bit more complicated than an echo, because "i love you" doesn't just bounce off someone's lips and come back. Our canyons have to be feeling the same things we are.



I wish we could be little again, playing the game and shouting "i love you" to the canyons. Because they'd at least return the affection and we wouldn't know that our only answer was silence.

The writing on the wall

The fighting in the crawl

I see the tears on the paved white gold painted walls

I feel the sorrow in the tears

I grasp hold to the converse of quality

The righting of my wrongs

The sighting of my endeavors

I weigh the plant's stem

I hold the ant's struggle

I have the anthropology of the human race

I am the immaculate with natural perception of flaws

The imaginary illusions of persuasion

The self-effecting moments

I reflect the mirror of dark light

I position my dry keepings

I marinate, simmering and sizzling in the secreting butters of dependency.

I am the illusive misconceptions

I keep my master plan in these gentle skinned bones of mine

I settle in my servitude

I liberate

The pledge of confinement

The poet with no adjectives

The mom's empty pockets

The gimmick inside the body

I imitate myself in your reflections

I erupt vigorously like Kilauea

I embedded my roots in my chest

Just so I could confess my means to obsess & caress myself in my own state

I am the karma of voluptuary actions

I characterize

The poise of peace

The differences at hand

The understand of Me

I am the codes that encrypt my deadness of life

I am the Life that you philosophize about

I am the truth that you allege to speak

I am you.

with hide-and-seek eyes

i choke for a desperate breath



a short gasp through busy lips and tongue

my pulse races to join another



empty mind and starving heart

matter over mind

i chose the devil's side



drenched in sweat and dripping in impurity

rivers of desolation runs crooked through my veins



i'm a vindication of my sin