We have all the time in the world
She coos to herself
Trying to pull herself out
From the pit she has buried herself in.

We have all the time in the world
We have forever
With such a cursed double-edged sword as life
Giving us freedom and pain.

She claws her way with
Dirtied fingernails
Chapped lips
A crinkled smile like a chip packet
Out of the dark hole.

The sun is too bright
And she cries out like the
Monster
She has become.

'I have everything'
She says, because it is true
She holds love like a dying bird
Smothering its freedom in a hope to keep it with her
She strangles knowledge with
A dark mind
Which thinks of nothing but broken records and the
Repeat of
'I hate myself'.

Life is beautiful
She muses as she spreads her darkness with her
Tainting all those she speaks to
Even with a glance they become ruined.

Why do you love me
She swears like it is a
Foul curse
As her mother stares at her
With too old dark eyes
That speak of ignorance
And biting knowledge.

The wind howls
'I hate you'
As if it were consoling her
Maybe it was.

It sweeps her off her feet
And carries her out to somewhere else
She had been standing too long
Almost looking living
And now needed to die for a week or so
Bury herself again
And wallow
As if her world were imperfect.

She walks to school
Always tugging at her sleeve
Always wondering if they see it
But don't care
If they see her
But don't care
If they whisper about her
But don't care.

She wonders if they care.

'Look away'
She lies
She wants a hug
But she also wants a slap
And a shout
And for someone to say
'Snap out of it, you're not a child.'

She is a child
Even if she is not
Even when she is
Her eyes are old
Yet she has seen no war
Or violence
No one hates her
No one that matters
But yet her eyes seem to absorb the elderly
As she looks around her
Stealing life from others.

'I curse my empathy'
Even when someone sneers she wonders why
She pities them
She wishes to understand their hate
She doesn't heal her bruises
She longs to heal other's bruises.

Yet she is still innumerably selfish.

The cow.

She looks behind her
Someone is there
Always there
Paranoia, hypersensitivity
She sees people who aren't there
Always about to tap her on the shoulder
And she spins around
Heart racing
Breath catching
The anxiety throb in her leg pulsing again like clockwork...

No one is there.

What do they want
She thinks loudly
Hoping they can hear her
And she won't have to say it out loud.

Truly she is selfish
Even if they asked her
She would deny them
For she hates them
All of them
For they are happy
And she is not.

Why am I angry
She whispers mournfully
She should be grateful
Look at her house
Dog
Friends
Parents
Cuts
She is so lucky
She should feel happy
Doesn't she have it all.

It is not a question
She bangs out nonsensically
Drumming away
Her fingers tapping in anxiety
And fear
And maybe sadness
And maybe cryptic malevolent amusement.

She climbs back down into her pit of despair.
Its warm.

How oddly comforting.

Dried tears taste like salt,
And spit,
And snot,
And bitterness.
They stick to the back of the throat like a frog,
Burn when they come out,
And leave tear tracks of pain and sadness behind,
Like twisted presents.

I'm seeing nooses in the shadows on my walls,
Shadow puppets dancing a mournful song,
Flashing visions of a knife over my veins,
Of my eyes closed as I accept the unacceptable.

Terror seeps into my skin as I realise my thoughts,
Pools down in my gut like acid,
Burning rings of fire through my stomach,
And I know I will think it again.

An itch on my neck keeps me awake at night,
Hissing in my ear of the pressure and release,
Tugging at my skin of how flimsy it is,
Of how temporary the pain would be.

A dark figure lies next to me,
Hot hissing breaths against my closed lids,
Whispering sweet nothings of taunted half held hearted promises,
Cooing as if I were a babe easily swayed into their arms.

So easy
It wont even hurt
Relief
An ending
An answer
No more pressure
You could be free
So easy

And I lie there,
Stiff as I pretend to sleep,
And the monster in my bed curls arms around me,
A lying mimicry of comfort.

My eyes clamp shut,
Nose flared in fear and exhaustion,
Arms wrapped around my torso to protect me from the enemy inside,
Blankets pooled in chains.

I will get through the night,
Ignore the whispers,
Sleep, I pray,
And repeat the ritual tomorrow.

He walked out as she was leaving,
Brushing fingertips and sleeves as they pushed past,
Eyes roving over their futures,
And never once pausing to look behind.

Her first job was done at the pace of a tiger,
Sight set on promotion,
Not once breathing in the low tide air-freshener,
Feeling feet tapping in impatience to move.

She perched from her ivory tower,
Gazing out at fortunes she vaguely recalled,
Mind hammering against her skull,
Screaming for more, for change, for evolution.

On her wedding day she strode down the aisle thinking of tomorrow,
Veil hanging limply, arch curled overhead and entwined with red and white roses,
Perfectly planned, to the seating placement,
Artistically sculpted smiles on the spouses.

She gazed into eyes,
A brilliant blue, stark and bold,
Staring back at her with might and purpose,
Lips parted slightly in breath.

On the birth of her daughter she thought of colleges,
Of names that would forever define them,
Of twisted last names threaded into the title of her offspring,
Of little girls with blonde hair playing on swings.

She let out a breath at the funeral,
Arms hanging limply as a man she hadn't known fell silent,
Another veil over her head,
And an empty future blossoming in front of her.

Tea drained down her throat, thick and soothing, like a mother's touch,
The porch creaked beneath her, sunlight shining shadows through autumn leaves,
And she smiled,
Never once thinking of all she had achieved.

Only the beauty of that autumn day.

Should I feel like I have won?
When the battle was only within myself,
And no one was keeping tack of points or victors,
And there was no prize other than stakes of land on my body.

Have you given up yet?
This eternal war we have declared,
Only for bragging rights,
Of I am okay or I am not,
Or saying nothing.

Why do I feel like you are waiting?
Like a trap winding inside my ribcage,
Ready to snap a bone on exit,
Ready to pounce out of the jungle and into the arena,
Waiting for me to fall asleep and for you to slip into my skin.

Should I be afraid?
That you will win and I will be left without structure,
My strings like a violin played by you, so consuming,
When I am a puppet and you are my spine,
What was once bravery now only an adrenaline high.

Should I be afraid?
That I will win and I will be left without what makes me myself,
That my fight against you stole all my desire and I will be empty,
That I will realise you have become me,
Are me,
That I will realise I have lost something you will not return.

Are you a thief?
Who has stolen the girl I used to be,
Who has stolen my bed and body,
Walking around in my stolen shoes as if you were me,
Who has stolen my goals and ideas and drive,
Who has stolen me car, perhaps, as well.

For why not that too?
When you have stolen my body,
Seduced my mind,
Staked a claim inside my room,
Piling bloodied tissues and needle packs like flags.

Should I try to run from you?
Pack my bag away in the night,
Kiss my family on the forehead one last time,
Even when you reside within me,
Even when that means I would be running from myself,
Even if I know it won't work but will try it anyway,

For I will try anything to be rid of you.

Are you a disease?
That has soaked into my sheets,
Slitted blisters and burns into my skin,
Dug crevasses like homes in my mind,
Burrowed deeply in my heart so you can make me cry all the time.

Am I doing enough?
With my some-day-never therapy and robot listeners,
My unwritten diary which lies lonely and neglected under blankets like shields,
When I do not know if I have a problem,
Or cannot admit to one,
Even when I say I so,
Like empty words,
But I cannot believe it.

Will I give up soon?
Since it is easy to,
Since you want me to,
Since some days I want me to,
Since no one is listening for my sanity to come back,
Since I am not sure if I care anymore.

Are you my character?
My basis for being,
My summed up understanding,
My morals and drawn lines,
And is that a synonym for distraction,
Or block,
Or love,
Or enemy,
Or addiction,
Or... destiny.

Why can't I quit you when I want to so much?

Some questions don't have the answers I want.

Her name is Red.
Red from the cuts that drip lower and lower until her sleeves get longer and longer to the point where they sweep the ground.
Red from the imaginary glint in her eye, one that is anger, one that is love, one that tries to burn back the black paint of hatred that threatens to consume her.
Red from that time she remembers following, thinking, 'for once I will be brave', that day her cheeks are bruised red from embarrassment, she is not a friend but a stalker they say.
Red from the thought in her mind, buzzing over and over until her ears can only hear it and only it. How can it be repeating so often when it sounds so insincere and incomplete?
She names herself Red, pushing away the other things she calls herself, trying to drown her failures in solitude and a new brand.
Red is a strong girl, with too much heart and too little sense.
Red has a clean heart, clean eyes, clean shirt and clean arms.
Red has no problems, other than that she cares too much.
Red locks it away, boxes them up, cups her ears and ignores the screams from the chained toy box in the corner of the room.
Red is a child, she clings to innocence with the grip of a wrench and the tenacity of a monkey.
Red does not count the people who whisper sweet sorrows behind her ears, but the people who pull her into half-in half-out embraces.
Red picks and chooses her thoughts, thinking of only positives, and screens all nightmares and attacks and faults.
Red is faultless, infallable, invincible and incomplete, there has never been a day that she was not happy, and there has never been a when she dreamt of her insecurities.
Red calls herself Red for she cannot call herself 'I', she is as impersonal as she is broken.
I am not Red, for Red is not real, even if I don't wish to accept that.
Let me be Red for a day and you will see hours cut and sobbed down the drain.
If it were Red she would be a half-happy half-girl with half-days and half-smiles... Half of Red's days she never even sees for one so limitless and all powerful cannot be maimed by a real person's problems.
Red shows no weakness, no sound, for Red is the colour of self-deceptions, lies and unlit badly sculpted illusions.
Red is blind, deaf and dumb if she cannot understand what is occuring around her.
'Ignorance is bliss' she never heard the phrase, for Red is uncultured, unlearned and speaks no language.
Red is an unforfilled idolised symbol.
Red is me, and I am not her.

Poetry is as dark as night
It is a mortal sin which crawls like bugs under my skin and makes me think
Sweet painful absolute thoughts
Of ****** truths and naked insults.

Poetry, you beast, foul creature I've possessed
You make me try to see myself
Make me try and let the walls down and
Drop my achy mouth from its plastic smiles.

Don't make me understand, or realise
That all will be better soon
Don't sing praises and preach quotes
Of rainbows and green fields.

Let me wallow in my misery
Moan of 'oh woe the world is cruel to me'
Bypassing guilt and self hatred and
Eye opening openness.

Don't fill my ears with cries of
'Could have been worse'
'At least you're not them'
'You have a family'
'Don't be so selfish'.

Poetry you sinful pleasure, you crooked slash across my throat
Don't force me to call you beautiful
When you are treacherous
And push me too far.

I want
For once
To cry
And not say to myself
'at least you don't want to die'.

I want
To sing my problems
And
Hear no snide comments
About how 'I aint the only girl with issues'

Poetry, you expressionistic trench-coat
Shield me with your overused rhymes and metaphors
Oh, poetry, I beg of you, curl your arms around me tight
So I won't feel so cold with only myself

And those voices

Begging

Tauntingly

Pleading

With me not to cry.

Poetry, treasure trove of my soul
Let me pour all my crap into you
So its gone
From me
And I don't have to carry it any longer
With red raw hands and splintered nails
From scratching at the surface too long.

Poetry, tree for me to burn black and blue
Let me bruise you
Let me tear my pages
Draw insulting doodles on your skin
Covering my writing.

Poetry is my deepest valley
Filled with things I just can't say
Piled high with problems I don't want to comprehend
Compressed until people just

Look away

And convince themselves.