The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave  us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream

you browse through my being
with fluttering eyelash-
squinting at the unpleasantries and
tugging at your brows with nervous thumbs.
i wonder-
will you know me any better by it.
sipping from the warm marrow of old bath water and running our hands down eachothers' sides. i
watch you take another big gulp of nothing
-find your feet amidst the company of elongated creatures that walk idly on the flat- smoothed out places of the world
that stretch
far and wide like some never-ending ungodly plane. you
scallop out pieces of your knowing just to make sense out of this happening. you
forget to receive beauty in all your eyes devour-
and in all you can crave.
the stiletto legged spiders cross paths like stilted walkers, wishing they were smaller
and you
will know nothing of them but will speak as if you've known them. i
can tell
you've never known them. i
can tell
. you
extend your limbs, hands open
as wide as the sky before you, you fancy your fingers as feathers,
and your outstretched arms as wings. i
know your bones must be hollow because
i've never heard such terrible sounds from them knocking together-
drumming out strum-songs because no strings could be used to make noise
in this place
you are lonely-
feeling as empty as freshly blown glass
and with
pins sticking out of my fingertips
i cannot drum along to your sound,
the crackling scratch of a vinyl record as
a cat claws at the beige carpet and
catches like velcro loops. i
know i've
put less thought into greater things
and
you
hold me
for only one second and
you are the tear in my jeans at the knees,
the flecks of dried paint in my black eyebrows,
and

infinitesimally small particle-sized portions of us all
bouncing around in the dark parts of your irises
like over-exited electrons colliding in a
cloud
of everyday
dust,
exiled into the far corners of
heavens.

you grasp the air around you like a flightless bird i used to know and i
peel
back
everything i might of known about you before
that lash-fall instant
in which
you
smiled

She sits in her little ball
of self diagnosed depression,
self inflicted sadness
and weeps dry tears
she sobs hoping someone
will stop
hoping prince charming will pick her up
even though she knows
he does not exist.

I feel sorry for this girl,
she has no one
as I watch her life through glass walls,
(glass walls that I can't break down)
she has become my favourite channel.
each season is almost the same as the last;
like a horrible soap opera
except this is real.
people see her,
pause for a moment,
weigh up the pros and cons
then continue on
like she was never there.

Very suddenly her life
becomes dark
and she's controlling the storm clouds
the roll and crash and boom
the spinning of a
self destructive tornado.
it rains blood on the world
shedding the now only present colour.
its all become black and white.
Its all become black and white
and she's dissolving in the smoke.
with a broken smile on her face,
she floats away on *** and coke.

Depression's cold hearted grip will slowly tighten,
And strangle you  to the point of just past broken,
And keep you prisoner.
It will hold you captive for as long as it pleases,
For as long as you are not strong enough to break free,
And emerge; spreading your wings like a newly awaken butterfly.
Except you won't be new the day you emerge,
Your wings will be bruised and battered.
But over time, we will see,
They will regain their beauty and help you, once again, to fly free.