I pined for this
I yearned for this
But empty
I feel hollow
Undeserving and unwanted
You say 'i love you'
But I don't feel it
I feel like an obligation
Perhaps I can't feel loved
Or perhaps there isn't any to feel
We don't know what's best for us

You smiled and shot a pine needle aimed for my heart
Left me winded and wounded and small
Splinters splattered through my veins
The chambers all blocked and punctured.
But I'm not dead, just agonised
Left pining over you
But this time I know it won't **** me
I've learnt this before and I know I'll be fine
The small splinter is heartbreaking and shattering
But it will mend itself, it always does
I'll just try to be okay until then.

Today I miss you
Or perhaps the touch of warm skin upon my own
Both feelings intertwine in my heart
Dance around like our fingers interlaced
One did not exist without the other
And I could never discern
Whether I liked you
Or your touch upon my skin

Oh, hello itch,
I've not missed you!
Nor your pleading, uneasy,
Eager smile,
Wicked begging eyes,
And hungry open mouth.
I've quite enjoyed this past while,
Lacking your insistent whispers.
Your lustful face
Looming round each corner of my boxed up,
Broken brain -
'FRAGILE - Do Not Break'
Ignored by the world -
Allowing you unforced entry,
You made a home
Hidden in the shadow
Of my unconscious darkness.
Fitfully coming to light
To remind me
Of yours and therefore my own;
Plea to die.

Tumbling toward the station
glossy eyed and weak
hands murmur a cold hum
as they redden
self piteous and cynical
bare by no fault but my own.

A shimmer and I pause
magpie glassy eyes
small blades of glistening grass
I stop the music and return
to hear the frost crunch as I pick up
and I revel in the sound
to try to convince myself to stay alive.

Be a good citizen to the world -
You owe it,
You owe it to the world.
Your time,
Your mind,
You soul,
Your body,
Your life -
You owe it to the world.
Well ******* take it -
My life.
Or let me take it?
No!
Cannot take it -
Must be a good citizen to the world.
Give it away -
Its not yours to take.

So few hear my voice,
too meek and mild -
my words lack echo.
Unworthy of its repetition.

One by one,
they simply roll downward,
tumbling from my lips
toward the hardened ground.
They permeate
like the softest rain,
eagerly engulfed by parched soil.

Or like tears
quietly falling
into heavy, soaked cotton.
Each burst smaller than the last
until it's wrung out.
I will not disturb, I cannot.

But sometimes,
ever so rarely,
some words escape the fall.
And just before they hit the ground,
and splash,
someone will hear.
Shocked - I spill them.
All the words I have,
each sentence I can assemble
And have so desperately longed to utter.

It happens so rarely
that when it does,
I often mistake being heard
for love.

You float high
and I reach.
On tippy toes,
with painted nails
For you.

Stretched and strained,
each muscle aches.
Fingers pointed,
back straight.
Still, not enough to reach you.

A subtle breeze
and I crumble and curl,
falling back into myself,
a safety net of sorrow.
So familiar,
It was once a home.
Four walls, no roof.

And from here,
I stare up at you.
But the moon and stars
are all I see.

Sun,
you've left me once again.

I hear you crying in the room upstairs
and your tears begin to drip through the cracks of the ceiling.
I try to swim through them to save you
but I begin to drown.
I cannot help you,
I cannot comfort you,
only drown in your sorrows.

I'm sat in silence across from you as you take the first drag of your cigarette.
exhale.
I mirror your actions, inhaling sharply as the pain hits my heart and it sinks down
down
down.
your smoke and my sorrow mingle somewhere near the pit of my stomach.

I watch you closely, following every movement as if I could miss something vital to the plot of a film.
you turn your head and catch my stare and I almost whisper
i missed you,
dear god,
i missed you.

when my father smoked,
i was a child.
terrified by every inhale.
the thought of his tar riddened lungs was unbearable.
but he was a lost cause,
long lost to the tar stained tobacco on a stick.
I would clutch my teddy in the back seat of the car,
fearful that my lungs may ingest such vile and villainous fumes.

when I smoked I was a teen,
dragging on the stick I once feared so much.
inhaling and exhaling as if my life depended on it.
I recalled the fear of a child's eyes, myself.
so afraid of death and toxicity
but now, seventeen,
I had long forgotten my childhood wish to stay alive,
to grow up
because I had.
and while doing so had learned that life is bleak.
my tar stained lungs don't horrify me like my father's did,
they push me further,
smoking faster and harder until I may become a small pile of grey and cremated ash kept carefully within a decorated vase upon a mantle piece,
an ash tray of sorts.