None of your lovers are going to attend your funeral. 
You spent too much time writing poetry about them,
and not enough kissing their black and blue stomachs
good morning. As they pinched the fat on their stomachs,
you compared their eyes to oceans that you’d never bathed
in. While they were lost inside of their own skeletons, you
spit out sonnets on the pillow. Remember this, you and I
will both die in the end, and none of this is going to matter.
Love better than you write.

(Source: adoenamedjane)