Do you ever think of me when you lie,
Lie down in your bed, your bed of lies
And I knew better than to look in your eyes
They only pretend you would be mine
And oh how you made me believe
You had me caught in every web that you weave
But do you ever think of me when you lie,
Lie down in your bed, your bed of lies
So does she know I've been in that bed before
A thousand count, and not a single thread of truth
If I was just another girl
Then I'm ashamed to say that I'm not over you
There's one thing I need to know
So call me, when you're not so busy just thinking of yourself

The screams of men, women and children flooded the blood filled streets of District 13.Whips, chains, axes, i could hear everything.The sound of a man's head been chopped off, a baby screaming for it's mother suddenly cut short.This is what the Capitol does to us, for rebelling.I stand here, my seventeen year self watching as everyone I know is brutally murdered.My mother, my eldest sister, my youngest sister and my baby brother.I couldn't cry, all my tears had been wasted for tears.My face stained with blood and tears.I hear the peacekeeper coming towards me.I can tell them by the sound of their heavy white boots crushing the rocks beneath them.My breathing quickens, what if they **** me? I'll be brutally murdered, never to see the light of day.I gulp as I hear their footsteps stop.I try not to make any sound.Not to move.I wish i could just run away from them.But that makes them to **** me more, by shooting me with their guns.

i’m going to fall backwards onto a cliché and let it carry me. I’m going to dictate, a monologue of boring, badly put confessions. I’m going to tell you that your eyes sweep me up in a hurricane of mixed-up pleasures. I’m going to tell you that when I wake up and see you lying beside me, I have to turn away because I forget that I’m living my own life, and not some picturesque movie version of it. I could get up and brush my teeth and get dressed and drink my coffee and still not believe it. I’m going to tell you a lot of things, all about me and all about you, and you might get bored and yawn and rub your eyes but in the end I hope you’ll understand.

I hope you’ll understand that those three words that are so unforgiving and so overused can be the most important ones at the right time. I could write about flowers and skies and models and kittens. I could write about something that’s not you. but you smell like flowers and your eyes are the color of the skies and none of the models are as beautiful as you and you’re allergic to kittens so I’m confused and I’m embarrassed and I’m sorry that you’re all I think about.

The lonely runner leaves behind the urban sprawl,
as neighbours close their shades against the chilly night.
Sunsets fingers grasp the sky in shades of red and gold
and try to hold the remnants of the evening light.

His footsteps stroke the ground,
where travellers homeward bound
have found no pleasure in their weary tread.
Striding now with natural ease, no thought involved,
as frosty air takes hold of breath
to paint a streetlight halo round his head.

He takes the path he loves the best,
the grassy tracks surviving  
mans encroaching fields of tarmac grey.
The trees enfold him as he runs,
their fallen leaves disturbed beneath his feet  
as rustling echoes pave his solitary way.

He feels his inner battle start, as strength of spirit
vies with bodies lack of will.
The plateau reached he pushes on
and knows his mind can overcome
the weakness of the outer shell.

Elation reached in solitude
and self sought conflict fought and won,
the runner slows his steps and turns for home,
part sorrowful of evening ritual done.

With weary flesh but soul refreshed,
escaping from the daytimes ties a little while,
her face unbidden comes to mind
and thoughts to waiting pleasures turn ..
and bring a smile.

He had such quiet eyes
She did not realise
They were two pools of lies
Layered with thinnest ice


To her,those quiet eyes
Were breathing desolate sighs
Imploring her to be nice
And to render him paradise


If only she'd been wise
And had listened to the advice
Never to compromise
With pleasure-seeking guys
She'd be free from "the hows and whys"


Now here's a bit of advice
Be sure that nice really means nice
Then you'll never be losing at dice
Though you may lose your heart once a twice

why is it that you only remember kissing?

or fumbling with plastic buttons in dim hallways, or folding his pants alongside your dresses
or laughing, or heading home to a bed you both could call yours.
why is it that the nights you spend crying in the next room- why does that fade?
you remain always dusty. god, all those days and months seperated by borders and waters you spent rationing these precious packages of recollection, closing your eyes and watching from a distance, as a younger, softer you rested her head on a pair of shoulders that were always there, a pair of shoulders that grew arms to hold you with, and a mouth to kiss you with, and fingers that would trace you and taste you and smudge you. now you know everything about love with nothing to show for it. now the safest place is nowhere near you.

you remember reaching out in the middle of the night, you remember why you quit smoking, you remember how he tasted, how he pulled you closer under the covers on cold sunday mornings. you would make room now when you would never make room before. now that it's too late, now that you are not fine. you remember kissing.

I learned my first lesson in love when I was seven years old, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table while my mother chopped garlic and told me that no man would make me happy. The year I turned sixteen, I lost my virginity at three in the afternoon in a claustrophobic studio apartment, to a tall twenty-four year old I had met just the day before. After we finished he asked me for a dollar to do laundry, and I said that I didn’t have one, and he kissed me on the forehead and told me to hurry home before it gets dark. After that I spent my time learning the shapes of men, the shapes of men smoking on the sidewalks and the shapes of men straight on the other side of the bed at midnight. The feel of men when they held my hand and showed me where they wanted me to touch. The feel of each man, all different and all the same. I learned the taste of cheap wine they gave me before they undressed me, learned a new language of just yes, please, and thank you. I learned that in the morning some men will hand you a cigarette and pretend to know your name, and some men will make scrambled eggs and pretend to know your name, and some men will remember your name while they’re politely asking you to leave. The year I turned sixteen, I met a man with terrible posture, from a place that seemed not so far away at the time. The first time we touched, awash in the static of the crowd, that was when I felt safe for the very first time. The first time the shape of a man made me feel safe.