honey, don’t fall for that boy.
he has games and you’ll be his toy.
his tongue might be sweet,
but they’re lies that he would repeat.

yet, you might still fall.
even though it’s clear, you pretend not to see it all. 
you’ll play the games and try to make it real,
he’ll make you beg and kneel.

you’ll love him but you won’t get anything in return
it’s his game, it’s always his turn.
you’re a candle that he’s just waiting to burn out,
he will trap you in his maze, breaking yourself into pieces is the only way out.

then the time comes when he leaves and you’ll realize,
that he consumed you and you’ll wish that you should’ve not rolled the dice.
he’ll move to another with no price,
so i beg you honey, take my advise.

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.