From my point of view
   I am always right
From your point of view
   I am totally wrong
From his point of view
   I am out of my mind
From her point of view
   what I do is so alien
From their point of view
   I mean absolutely nothing
Perspective is ever changing
   But always needs a key

She kisses the boys and girls
that pay the most attention.
The boys play with vapor
and her girls play with tension.
I wish I was the only one
that she will decide to touch
but I am who I am
and, in a way, that is too much.

Sawblade-sunflower petals
wrap around an earthy cushion,
and the humidity hangs in the air
as her beige body is crumpled
and I feel too sober, pushing.

Baby yellow falls apart,
in her hair the flower starts
to trickle onto sheet and pillow,
decorating the absences
that define how hollow
she and I have felt before --
******* like an endangered species
on the killing floor, I whisper once,
I whisper sweet, "Don't you wish
that we didn't meet?"

She kisses the boys and girls
that give the most attention.
I played with vapor
and she played with tension.

I think I'm starting to get bad again
I'm playing with my knives again
I like the feeling of the blade on my skin
I almost sure I'm starting to get bad again
I've picked one knife and used it
I've cut into my own skin more than once
Not deep enough to scar though
I'm definitely getting bad again.

******* cutting up my skin.
In only places I can see.
Never ******* meant a thing.
No not to anyone.
I'm just tossed around.
Thrown sky high only to hit the ground.
One two three.
All blody lines on me.
Can I just take one to my neck?
Get it all over with.
Wash the blood from my hands
Dress me nice.
I made the ultimate sacrifice.
I took myself away.
So you can have a worry free life.
You never needed me.
Until that day.
Imma just ******* cut!!!
Bleeding.

We lie in the dark,
on the sidelines of existence.
watching and waiting
for the day the fire can leap from our throats
and scorch them all.

But for now,
we observe and listen.
silent in the shadows,
we see them,
spitting sparks of words that sting each other.
unknowingly sealing their fates.

And when the day comes,
we, the silent ones,
will creep out of the dark.
our fire will singe them to the ground.
realization in their eyes,
that their sparks
ignited a fire that burned them in the end.

Maybe she wanted to die with white flowers,
clutched in her hands as the world stopped..
Lost in the field of broken glass,
she had his world in her grasp.
tossing and turning,
so she sparkled with deadly glass spikes,
coated in a syrupy red.
the flowers still pristine white
and her mind lost among the lights.
his tears chased her far away,
to the end of the earth where she stayed.
Teetering between
death and life.
he wanted to end her strife.
so he gave her the flowers
to take her away
to a place where she could be safe.
but she fell off the edge
into the sea of glass,
with those white flowers clasped in her tight grasp.