A girl is standing on a ledge.
A stale breath of air on the back of her neck
Urges her to step forward.
She turns, but no one is there
But the sky.

A girl is sitting in the bathroom,
All but ripping and shredding her flesh to bits.
A chuckle from the drain
As water and red gurgles,
Gurgles away.

A girl is laying in bed,
The creaks and moaning whines from the house
Echo loudly in her ears.
“What would happen,” it asks, “if you broke through the glass
And leapt out the window?”

A girl is followed,
Footsteps in time with her own,
Chased and haunted by every feeling, sound, and thought.
It seems the spirits have her too,
Because she still continues to smile.

A bridge broken from one side to another.
A telephone wire cut.
Something's wrong inside my head.
The thing is, I don't know just what.

Chirping alarms
Whirring fans
Smoky smells
Red. Blinking. Lights.

A robot whose been programmed wrong,
An exposed sparking wire.
The buttons don't click all the way.
Hazardous, watch for fire.

Danger
Danger
Danger
Do not approach

This automatic switch is supposed to make me excited
This one makes a genuine smile.
Nobody notices, though, that I'm on manual control
And have been for a while.

Overheating
Overworking
Overdoing
Over

Electricity and buttons and wires
Do not mix well with water, I think.
But because I'm in desperate need of repair
I'm in constant thirst for a drink.

"Should have bought that extended warranty."
"Did you turn it off and on again?"
No.
No. Because it's broken.

Hard drive shorting
Lights are blinking
And I'm thinking
My last thoughts exporting

Crackling
Clicking
Clattering
Clanking
Clunking

The only thing that works well anymore
Is the part that goes through the motions.
Perseverance is my constant notion
As I burn myself out on the shore.

It's hot to the touch.
Back off.
Soon, it might Explode

Tonight,
Just go and stare at the moon
Until her unfamiliarity becomes familiar.
Stare until the pink sky fades to gray,
Stare until you have to look away to marvel and
Suddenly, the sky is alive with stars.

Tonight,
Just go to the moon with open ears
Until you hear her faint laughter, a passing breeze.
Listen until you understand her,
Listen until she begins to share the
Countless secrets whispered to her.

Tonight,
Just go to the moon with open arms,
Until you feel a swelling in your chest.
Feel the way her gentle fingers stroke your face,
Feel the way she holds you, this
Guardian angel guiding you through the night.

Tonight,
Just go to the moon and talk
Until you've nothing more to discuss.
Talk about your day (she doesn't see it all).
Talk about how you cannot wait to have someone with whom
To see the moon.

In-N-Out Burger, quarter to 11.
Tonight I dressed up, hoping I’m at least a 7.
My friend pulls Bea and me aside,
Smiling cheeks, glinting eyes.

A conversation behind her had occurred:
“That girl is really cute, should I tell her?”
She subtly turned around to see
That two boys were looking towards Bea and me.

As she told her story, I bit my tongue.
I let myself think “finally, someone
Who thinks that I’m pretty, and deserves a chance.
I seem to be dodging any flirting glance.”

You’re lovely, my friends tell me (I hope that it’s true).
But I crave to hear it from someone new.
Someone who could possible grow
To love me and cherish me. I don’t say that, though.

I turn to Bea, and give her a smile
She’s in a red dress, prettiest for a mile.
My friends are all 10s, that I can see,
And I know that comment was for her, not me.

So here I am at In-N-Out eating fries
Pretending not to worry about numbers and guys.

Dysmorphic

Whenever I see the word “noon”
I sit and I stare at it.
Logically, I know that it’s spelt right,
But the perfect palindromous parallel
Just looks wrong.

Sometimes in band, I hear a sound
And it’s just not right.
Logically, I know that it’s fine,
But the slight tremor torturing the technique
Just sounds wrong.

Sometimes I see myself in the mirror
And I don’t recognize me.
Logically, I know the body I see is me,
But the soul inside is suffocatingly stifled,
And I feel wrong.

The comedian is depressed—
Irony at its peak.
People cannot see the lies
Whenever she starts to speak.

The comedian is depressed.
Her smiles are not her own.
Day and night pass by and by,
Her house is not a home.

The comedian is depressed,
But the audience cannot tell.
In the end that's all that matters,
That, and if you perform well.

The comedian is depressed,
Head filled with gray and blue.
You cannot know the full extent
Until you acknowledge that it's true.

The comedian is depressed,
Each laugh is fleeting, at most.
Original thoughts inside her head
Tied her to a whipping post.

The comedians are depressed,
And more are going away.
How much longer till people think
To ask if we're okay?