Violet 

I wish you clung to me like paint does to my skin, a feeling somehow out of place yet comforting and familiar.

In other words I love you and you are art to me.

By Violet Snow

My bed is empty even with me in it, it's cold and I lie here aching from lack of touch, I want to be held, be loved, be cared for.

I am tired and weak.

I just want a hug, I want to lie down on my bed with your arms around me... With anyone's arms around me.

(Something I wrote for a friend)

Your not mine I know that but you where for a bit.

Soon someone else’s the doors wide open.

The way they look at you, I don’t think you see but I know how they feel and I know what they think.

I’m scared to love you, I’m already hurt.

I’m scared to lose you, I’d rather get burnt.

I know you don’t want me no matter my effort. I can change be nicer, be better. Its pathetic.

But you know who I am and you know what I’m like, so even if I change you’ll see me that way right?

But your stuck in my head, I can’t turn the page.

Hanging out in my room, you explain that what we are can’t change—that the months we spent talking are just that, and the week we spent together shouldn’t have happened.

You have a list of reasons why, and I have to say I don’t disagree with your choices, so I don’t really try to argue. I just tell you how I feel, with a smile on my face, saying, “It’s okay, I get it,” over and over again.

I can tell you really care for me, which I think makes it worse. If I could hate you, this would be easier.

We’re still as close as before—nothing’s changed except my fears and a couple of the jokes we make.

You look at me like you can’t get a read on what’s inside, and I’m sure I do the same. But at least I have a smile drawn on my face—if I didn’t, I would sit here in tears, and I worry that would hurt you more than it would help me.