Dancing before my eyes, is the mirage of perfection.
I reach for it and it slips through my fingers.
My therapist says I am grieving – and how can I stop?
Change tears me from my foundations, again and again.
And each time is like sandpaper on my skin;
new faces mix with old fears in a nauseating pattern.
They say home is not a place, but a feeling of security,
and so, I cannot go home.
Once I had a home in a bitterness of a girl, with eyes like autumn leaves.
That home kept me sharp and angry, as I had always been. But it is not such a torment, when one is not angry alone.

/Here there lies a girl, auburn hair and eyes of molten autumn.
She wanted to burn the world.
Moth to her flame, I followed her to the end of the earth.
And watched as she burnt herself to cinders./

Long after that home deserted me, I found another. This time I fostered myself among a merry band of misfits. At the zenith of this period of home, I found myself entirely humanized, with unfamiliar stirrings of contentment. But, as that home drew to a close – in both place and security, again rose the familiar stirrings of dread.

My trepidation was not misplaced.

Like a reluctant Dorothy, I was plucked from my home by the unforgiving storm of time. My newfangled humanity proved an acute vulnerability. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say. And so, the old bitterness and broken humanity mixed like acid in my blood, leaving a feeble and faithless girl.

It is enough to make one wonder if it’s worth it – to have loved and lost.

I feel as if something has been stolen from me, fate some cruel and callous thief to let me believe in any of it,
to give the pretence of meaning to my meandering life and tear me to pieces with the temptation.

I understand why we become destroyers –
is that a line I too, will cross?

We so wish and dream to be heroes and precious friends, only to be cast out into the wasting and hungry world – full of monsters.

I see, I see how easy it would be, to MAKE it stop.

I swore I would not be a monster – if only so as not to validate the harms monsters have done me.

But if I am to be devoured either way,
have I enough soul left to believe
that
promise
mattered?

it hurts i don't believe and it hurts and its real not real wrong still it hurts it hurts monstrous monstrous world all nothing like my head full of light poison hurting cracked still not real please too unreal and not still staying moving hurts cold and aching sorry sick of sorry you are not i hate the this here stop.
sick thoughts depravity of soul i am choked despise my head your head how dare it be dark why would you even this isn't true i should what because it won't can't doesn't isn't shouldn't be.
still is is still feeling sensing alive too real to be unreal and really not safe really wrong really really wasted am i the same cracked as we always would have been no saving us it this them all because it always was no stopping no other way path no choice or for so long chosen wrong how could it still matter i am so angry.
i am so angry i am frozen i will be wasted on this world of nothing because it is real i am the nothing is this why they hurt them because i can't hurt them shouldn't mustn't but i am so unstrong unbrave wrong too but that would be surrender and wrong but nothing here is right why would they like this choose this isn't home isn't warm isn't bright free sweet love...
isn't.

I'm crying watching you,
so enraptured.
But soon enough I will ache again,
at life's alter bruised and tender.
Beautiful and fictional,
you are not enough.
A half remembered tune,
only bitterness when clogging my gears.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.
I understand how they would raze the world,
but I mustn't.
I will die anyway.

My love was the brutal and bitter kind,
frayed at the edges.
I gave it to giants and gods,
as giants and gods demanded.
Righteous was a fiction,
and I was only small.
My love had changed,
as I had changed,
and neither for the better.
Structural damage is done,
wear and tear on our souls,
worn and torn by far too much cruelty.
I have no indignation left,
and I hate the creature they have made of me.

And I’m afraid of you but it’s not your fault.
Because everything is grinding on my wires right now,
yeah I’m tense and still so much I’m paper-thin.
It feels like my bones are hollow and with nothing to hold my body
I’m caving in.
I just feel naked right now, I just feel frail with self-doubt, and insecurity.
And so I show up at your door, hoping you can put me together like before.
But I’m too weak to feel quite sure, that you’re safe (for me) right now. But I know that it’s okay, to be afraid around you.
Because you let me feel what I need to feel when I’m here.
And you be the balm to my frayed nerves and settle me,
and lighten me,
and soon enough my head that’s plagued with ghosts, will be debugged by the thoughtlessness of haven in your arms,
yeah you deactivate my false alarms.

So many parts of me, are amputated, de-oxygenated. So many parts of me, beggar my own belief, I say ‘no there’s no such thing, it’s a phantom limb. It’s a phantom limb-hmm.’
//I get dragged down by factual jaws, practicality with callous and cause. I forget my overactive imagination, the delusion that is my consolation. I become a ghost town – a haunted nation. I’m not proud to wear the crown.
//So many senses, giving me bile, making me choke. But every, once in a while, I get through the screen of the smoke. And there’s a world, out there, beyond a realist cloak. And I am happy, for a moment vindicated, I am at peace, for a moment I’m elated, so invigorated. But then it ends, my head is a prison again-a-an.
//And I beg it to change, my atoms to implode and rearrange but all the things once bearable are strange. And I forget I am able to change, myself in the mirror, seeing my eyes are caged.
//Can’t keep the faith, at the pace I’m deprived. Without my un-empirical, I feel un-alive. How long will my soul survive? I’m in fear of living dismembered.

We break all our bones, to live in your homes. Ignoring the pangs, the aches and the moans. We call it being free, the choice to decay. We call it living, this existence of strain. Yeah, we are deluded, but the world is delusional, so who can succeed in a sane state?
//We are exceptional, in that it is terrible, for us who are used to feeling safe.
//I am a machine I used to say, but I meant an instrument, and you mean a tool-o-ool. Scry for me, or try for me, that’s what I’m looking for, something to die for, do you want to die for me?
//Yeah, but there’s something else in here, something darker in this – life. Brains on drugs, maybe it’s called love, because this surely is called hatred. Pain, make it a drug, because it’s what I’ve got a lot of, it can distract me from how I try to distract me. Sane, call me, because, I fit the mold like a glove. I’ve cut off my fingertips.

Pretty pose, pretty prose, pretty vapid. Pretty, pretty, shiny, plastic. Stone, like a brick, grooves in my bones, skin not thick.
//Won’t you call me a medicine man? Call me a doctor, she won’t understand. Send me to England or send me to France, I’m a pagan to all your illusion.
//Keep me for keeps, or **** me with fire. I am alive if I summon your ire? Am I maybe dead, is that what I desire, do I, do I?
// I would breathe poison that came from your lips, in this world of elbows I’d die for a kiss.
**** me so I can see there’s more than this,
more than this,
more than this-is.