He stands beside my door at night,
twisted and hunched in the dark.
A smile that embodies fright,
and curls with the madness he makes.

He carves his words into my skin,
to assure I won't forget them.
Then, he laces daffodils and venom to my chest;
my favorite adversary has horrid taste.

I can only hear the beat, a steady ticking pace,
I couldn't even face my fears, you see,
for my own worst enemy has no face.

My chest is weighing heavy,
it holds my heart of stone.
My soul is falling weary,
I couldn't do it alone.

Heavy breathes, and painful sweats,
how could this happen to me?
Well, while he's here I see,
meet my horrifying friend,
anxiety.

She only cares for lilacs.
Her favorite color's black.
She lives within a snowglobe,
and never leaves her track.

She wears him like a necklace,
or keeps him in a box.
She's so afraid of losing him;
just love and forget-me-nots.

Polish her with madness,
and paint her insanity clean.
She's honestly not as crazy as,
they'll all like to make her seem.

She only sleeps on rainy days,
only because she's afraid.
He doesn't see the beauty,
and hates being awake at 3am.

The phone is always ringing,
like the clock upon the wall.
Indie music resonates,
echoing down the hall.

She hides away alone,
with a cigarette in her hand.
The ledge of the tub is occupied;
she sits, and waits, and time goes by.

Her life is just a puzzle,
but she doesn't have a clue.
She complicates the simple things,
and makes happiness run blue.

He doesn't mind her tendencies;
he knows she's a little strange.
She wears him like a medal,
like her little trophy man.
But he knows she needs him,
he's the only sane thing he has.

He said he had me like the rain;
I was cold, and sharp, and I always slipped away.
I never intended to slip through your fingertips,
though I often find myself doing so.

I am not hard to hold onto,
but I am simply hard to hold.
My skin is lined with thorns,
but I am not as pretty as a rose.

His words felt like velvet
as he told me why he only half smiled.
I hardly paid attention, but,
I loved it when I did.

He was like a fire;
he was fascinating until
you gave him half a touch.
He burned.

I laced threads that were,
damp with his breath
as I stitched up the holes in his shoes.

His laugh was worn and stale,
as he leaned back in his chair.
His shoes were barely patched,
and his eyes were still dark and black.

I didn't think his darkness,
would take a stable home.
I hoped that all his horrors
would eventually leave him alone.

He had splinters in his ribcage,
and trying lines on his spine.
His body bends as he rolls over,
he never sleeps at night.

His alarm is always calling,
like his mother by the stairs.
His sister's always falling,
for the boys with metal on their lips,
a little piece of him he'd wish he could forget.

His skin is worn like parchment,
as he wishes away what he is.
I wish he'd never change himself,
but hes the only one who did.

I traced his skin in circles,
and left salt on his wrists.
This part of him couldn't be,
he didn't want any of this.

The slender of his jaw was cracked,
and his fingertips were crooked.
None of this had hardly mattered
when he was soft and warm and less rugged.

I left him wrapped in leather,
on his bed, alone in the dark.
I couldn't prevent his horridness,
from claiming himself as it's own.

He said I was the Sun;
I was warm and bright,
and brought new life.
I hoped I brought him back.

But his eyes had sunk like anchors,
and his lips were small and numb.
And when he laughed the stale was gone,
and breath was left instead.

I watched him fade like a photograph,
and I washed away the stains.
But, alas, I couldn't help him;
I couldn't take away the pain.

At dawn I found a hollow girl,
fair, with metal in her veins.
She spoke of narrow hallways,
with dew upon the doors.
She warned of fading quickly,
        her soul poured upon the floor.

She tugged and knotted at her hair,
as she spoke of horrorful woes.
She huffed, and sighed; it wasn't fair.
Then she felt cold water on her toes.

The shocking sting stunned her at first,
yet the needles slowly rised.
She hoped it wouldn't be the worst,
but still the needles rised.

They figured they couldn't mend her,
leave her broken on the floor.
There was nothing they could do
before she'd pass through that door.

"What else?" they'd ask the actors,
"What speech could we write next?"
They'd give her a special one
and for this she'll be blessed.

As they molded plaster
and preened her oh so nice.
They painted her a smile,
and emerged her into ice.

It must be glamorous to live in cigarette smoke.
It must be an honor to be covered in ash.
The drama and danger must be the attraction,
a little kiss from death, and all the magic happens.

The papers must be nice, all tied with little fables,
while the parties must be fun, with drugs on all the tables.
The girls trap boys beneath their fishnets,
and the boys tie another notch to their belts.

They all love to live on rims,
and once it's too hard, they want ledges.
Oh, how glamorous it must be to live like the empty,
with the shallow and shells and depression.

They all want a taste of death on their lips,
and a bottle of liquor for their palms.
It's just taking an extremity,
and living it 'til it's all they are.

Enjoy all the falsities.
This isn't the silver screen.
Once damage is done, the smart grow dumb,
and that's how the pretty die young.

He left coffee stains on my pillowcase,
and saltwater by the counter.
Blood from his knuckles on the doorknob,
and then the stale of his breath in my hair.

I sprayed his car with my perfume,
before he left that day, so soon.
He hated goodbyes, so he never said them,
instead, see you later, would bottom his letters.

I lured a man to meet him,
at the corner of Webb and Decree.
I bet his eyes rolled back without laughter,
and his heart hit a beat that's too slow.

I pulled threads out of his sweater,
smiled, and said he'd be mine forever.
But he hates goodbyes, so he'd never say it,
but I'd hug him tight like I wouldn't forget him.

How does it feel,
to mix blood with metal?
or taste glass, or paint,
or miss the pedal?

I heard his mumbling in my head,
like the marks he made,
and the words he bled.

His cologne is still in my kitchen,
but his is gone, and faded quickly.
I forgot how he tapped the counter,
and wrote  a note with an ink-less marker.

I played his favorite song at dawn,
when I would finally admit there was,
something wrong.

I waited for a chime or ring,
I hoped for a little nothing.
But air had turned to something,
and it was a mistake.

I met with a box that was faded black,
with a wounding smile,
and a glass choir in the back.

I looked upon my marionette,
in his faded tux his brother wouldn't get.
In the tie I bought when he was late,
and the watch he wore on our very first date.

The flowers in his mother's favorite color,
but they didn't match his eyes.
I could hardly see their pigment,
except in my head;
I wanted the real ones instead.

The colors wouldn't wander,
or change when he was sad.
He was merged with metal,
but no scars upon his lip.

I remember silver walks,
when he told me he could hardly talk.
He said things he's never say,
and prayed I wouldn't go away.

I lost him to a moment;
a little piece of time.
A too fast, too slow,
wrong place, wrong time.