She
Is a pursuer
Of Happiness.

She
Is a tornado
And when she pursues Happiness
As though It is her lover who loved her enough
To let her go,
She kicks up **** where **** doesn’t have to be
And Happiness
Is no longer curled up under her nose,
Like treasure
Waiting to be discovered.
It has scurried away
In the calm before the storm.

She
Is a Perfectionist.

She sits here
Imagining what it would be like to construct a poem
That would turn her reader’s world upside down
Or her audience
Or herself.
Because she needs a change,
A dose of anti-gravity,
A chance for her toes to dig their tiny graves in the sky
And bury themselves.
And when she is not satisfied
Like right now?
She gives up.

















Though sometimes,
She does not give up.
And she continues a pattern
That we might as well all call Self-Destruction
For lack of a better name.
And she really does become a ticking time bomb.

Let her introduce you to Self-Destruction.

Self-Destruction
Is the monster in her mirror
Who, every time she gets too close,
Eats away at her.

Self-Destruction
Is her fascination with blood
And her love of bones.

Self-Destruction
Is all the stupid things
She knows she could do
If she couldn’t take it anymore.

One day she will sit down on an unsuspecting airplane,
And she will blow up.
It will start in her head.
And her eyes will quiver
Until they roll out of their sockets
And her neck will shake
Until it snaps
And her hands will twitch
Until they break off
And suddenly her head will split in half
Her whole body will split in half
And the molecules that have defined her for over fifteen years will break apart
And her infinite number of atoms
Will carry the plane down, down, down
And the passengers’ screams won’t be able to lift the plane back up like helium
And they’re screaming
And they’re screaming
And suddenly the ground magnifies in the windows
And they’re screaming
And
And—!

She believes it.
She believes one day she will lose herself
Into the abyss we call life.
Snatched away into the wind;
One second she is there,
And then,
She is not.

She is a girl
With lips that seem a tad too plump
And eyelashes that will never be long enough
And skin as white as snow.

She is a girl
Whose doe eyes are definitely hazel
But everyone sees them as brown
And she hates brown.

She is a girl
With a contradicting, yet satisfying hair color, though it may vary,
Which is never, ever shy of a genuine brown.

She is a girl
Who can’t place mind over matter
And it usually ends up matter minus mind divided by carelessness times anxiety plus self confidence to the negative twenty sixth power.

She is a girl.

did you know
that when you die,
your once glassy eyes,
who dreamed wild dreams
standing tall against
the landscape of vivid imagination,
see the sun
and the stars
and all things billions of light years
so far into the universe
that even god himself
can only stop
and stare as
you leave earth --
your hands outstretched --
like a bird flying --
you hurdle
toward heaven
headfirst,
never once
looking back?

lust is a funny thing,
it makes me feel two-faced.

one moment, i'm calm,
sitting there, smiling.
the next,
i am in your arms,
or i am on top of you,
and i am something
i have never become
before.