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Annelyra Mar 2015
As I sit, one night, waiting
for you to grace me with
your evanescent (ever-late) presence,
it occurs to me that, if I
described the symptoms of
having you in my life to a
Medical Doctor, they would
no doubt tell me I had some
variety of viral disease.

Hello, Google.
What are the most common
symptoms of a virus?
'Common symptoms that indicate
the body is under viral attack include:
Fever
Sleep Disturbance
Severe Headaches
Confusion
Fatigue.'

Fever.
Increase in ****** temperature.
You have raised my temperature
so high that I could barely
breathe through the condensation
lining my lungs, just from
looking up under your hair
at me with those outrageous
eyes, that perfectly placed
tooth on lower lip, those
infinitely delicate fingertips.
I felt the heat in my head
every time I read the words
I wanted so badly to see and
thought you were telling me
something I wanted to know.
Fever? Check.

Sleep Disturbances.
Well.
To this day, I can count
no less than five occasions
when I have longed to
clamber into Sleep's sweet
chariot, but waited behind
for you, holding my eyelids
open with your promises.
You let me down
every time.
Eventually, those promises
dissolved into droplets
and my eyes fell shut,
with your empty words
and my disappointment
mingling on my cheeks.
This is not to mention
the late-night conversations
I entertained only because
I was terrified it was
late-night or nothing.
Sleep Disturbances?  My friend,
it is way beyond disturbed.
I am positively deprived.

Severe Headaches.
Jesus.
Can I tick this one twice?
The thought of your evasions
and excuses makes the
blood vessels in my head
expand and contract at
a rate that is truly unhealthy.
In fact, nowadays, they
preempt the inevitable
and begin their undulations
at the mere sight of your name.

Confusion. The mistaking
of one thing for another, or
an uncertain state of being.
For example, the confusing of
someone who gives a ****
with someone who doesn't!
As far as I am concerned,
if I love someone, I will
collect the discarded feathers
of suburban English birds
and glue them together with
prittstick and melted hope.
I will sew these homemade wings
to my shoulder blades, and I
will fly close to the surface of
the ocean, without looking up.
I will do Icarus's father proud,
and I will arrive at the door
unscathed and smiling, decorated
with my loyal, makeshift wings.
There is no space for uncertainty
when you are in my arms.
But, like a neglected puppy,
chained to a dingy backyard fence,
I cannot forgo the scraps you
fling at me carelessly; you feed my
starvation indifferently, sparsely .
When these scraps are suddenly
retracted, the hunger is sharp
against the lining of my stomach.
Is there a hungry creature on
the planet who understands
why they must suffer?
Confusion; I am painted in it.

Fatigue.
All that sickening fatigue.
I feel it between my bones
as another thing is left unsaid.
I feel it crawling along my skin
every time I pretend I'm okay
with how this is going, or not going.
The fatigue of you spins in
my synapses, it crashes over me,
wave after wave, until I don't
think I have the strength to fight.

The fact that I need to fight
your influence at all tells
me everything I need to know.
With herbal tea and plenty of sleep,
with people, distraction, music,
I will soothe the symptoms of you.
Soon, my self-esteem will no longer
be your host cell; you will not
reproduce your ego with the
linings of my membranes again.
I will not sit up late, nursing
my headache whilst you invade
and conquer atom after atom
of my precious sense of worth.
I will settle only for symbiosis.

As I sit, one night, waiting for
you to grace my life with
your evanescent presence,
I suddenly see that, medically,
we are merely virus and host.
Doctor?
Vaccinate me.
Annelyra Feb 2015
My heartfelt thanks
must go, once again,
to the omnipresent
Media Machine.
This time, I'd like
to turn my applause
towards Hollywood.
Hardworking Hollywood,
not content with merely
flattening our bodies into
cardboard cut-outs
and planting them on
the other side of the mirror;
That was so easy
to achieve!
Mirror, mirror, have I
got thinner?
Ladies and gentlemen,
this time they have
stolen not only our
self-esteem; they reached
out and took quirkiness, smiles,
geekiness, beautiful eyes.
They borrowed sensitivity,
desirability,
spirituality,
endless 'why?'s.

They took, in short,
a small portion of me.
They poured these
evanescent qualities
into a bowl full of
dough, and they mixed
and they mixed, until
finally they had something
the colour of roses
and honey, cookie dough
full of of sunshine and
everything that glows.

With fingers and rolling pins,
this star-dusted combination
was teased into the
shape of a Hollywood heroine.
She was left raw, without
depth, a template
with the potential to rise.
Despite her incompletion,
she was wheeled out into
the limelight that night.
Here, we present to you
our latest creation!

Without further ado,
may I introduce you to the
Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
She is half of a creature,
all sparkle and no darkness.
Ups without the downs,
Selflessness without the sighs.
Got a girlfriend? Doesn't matter!
She's conveniently allergic
to commitment.
Either that or she exists only
on the anonymous internet.
She will show you the infinite
loveliness of living, and you
don't even have to introduce
her to your parents!
By then, she's flown away
on a cloud made of sugar
or fallen down a well,
or something.

Something in me, my
eccentricity, correlates with
this half-drawn template.
Tell me, though, Hollywood.
What happens to the rest?
When I'm fighting my mind,
am I Manic Depressive Nightmare *****?
When I am too tired for skipping
through the night with a sensitive
man-child, showing him how
to live and to love and to laugh,
am I Moody Pessimistic
Downer Woman?
There is only something of me
in everything of her.

To Hollywood, I say
******* and **** your lobotomy.
I don't want to be served
sunny side up
on a plate made of rainbows
to the entire Western world.
Don't list my name in
the title of your painting,
your dimly-lit canvas of
some blurred girl-shaped blob.
Don't take one of my colours
and turn it into a concept,
so that men cannot
recognise the rest
of my spectrum.
I am not some filtered,
****** up, bloodless
work of art.

So, raise your glasses
and smile as we bequeath
our most sarcastic thanks,
then, unto the fine creators
of this ridiculous fairy.
Because, of course, we could
always, always use reminding
that we are inevitably,
unredeemably
2D.
Annelyra Feb 2015
I conduct electricity
like a scientist's *******
these ocean eyes invite
the caresses of lightning
and whilst water cannot
burn, it can boil and froth

the skies in my lungs are
so low on oxygen
we're 30,000 feet up
what a
long way
to fall
I'm perpetually breathless
and willing to fly higher
will you lend me your wings?
the bones in mine crumpled
the first time I fell and
yours are so strong
so obsidian
so smooth

at first you are gentle
your words are like prayers
encircling my hands
in worship of ourselves
but with a rush
of blood
to my traitorous flesh
I know that
those prayers are
the kisses of artists
sinful
bohemian
beyond moral reason
under this caress
I'm a fallen goddess

we shouldn't be touched
by such lustful hands but
I only find life in your
technicolor dreams
so
turn me into art
with scarlet finger paints
use moonbeams and blood
scrawl a
calligraphic signature
on my collarbone
scratch my
porcelain surface
press your lips
to the wound
although don't forget
once those prints
stain my skin
I am evidence
exquisite and quivering
you're the suspect
enchanted and shivering

and who should be the
forensics team but you?
I should have known
I suppose
my body is a playground
not a crime scene
I swear
why won't you settle
for less than my soul?
perhaps this is some
past-life retribution
or divine intervention
for the broken angel
of your pagan religion
take me out of your dreams
and I'll build you a god
we will lie at its feet
and idolise the night

Idols are outlawed.
You paint guilt
on my features
and tell me
you're waiting.
I tell the truth
the whole truth
nothing but truth
the hammer falls hard
they don't know
we're perverse
my verdict is kind

Fill her with lightning.
Hands bound,
ankles tied,
heart screeching,
nerves singing.
Through it all
you adore
my slow execution.
With your teeth in
my neck, you feed
on my sighs,
helpless twirls,
hopeless hips,
shocks that
spin down my spine.
You conduct electricity
like sheets
of pure silver,
and the sparks
in my veins
heat your skin
in its turn.

Victorious, glorious
Lord High Executioner.
Hold the current
to my throat
and don't stop
never stop
(I could snap if you stop)
til my lips
are sparkling
with static.
Annelyra Jan 2015
Contrast is the purest
form of torture.
When God, in his anger,
paints my personal hell,
it will be made up of
ice castles and infernos,
of silence and screams
at ragged and ****** intervals.

The voices in my head only
mumble. Their words are
indistinct, I cannot separate
the sounds. Nothing can
make you lonelier than being
left out of the conversations
inside your own mind.

I'm tearing strips out of my
own life, setting fire to the edges
and scattering them into the
air. They bleed violet fire into
the black sky, and I watch,
and I cry my guilt into the
arms of my non-existent deity.

He strokes the ash out of my
hair, and breathes in the smoke
left behind by the blazing shred
of myself. It is only when
the atmosphere clears
that I realise I am alone.
The arms that gently held me
are actually just my own.
Annelyra Dec 2014
I choose safety
over adventure.
Besides, if I
stay here now,
after everything
that's happened,
they'll put me
in the
krankenhaus.
Annelyra Jun 2014
Time is a heartless *****.
If she was human, she'd be an auburn
goddess, a rose-blossom sweetheart,
doused in honey and dappled sun.
Two star-dusted eyes would fix on you,
shimmering, alien; they would light the way home.
Sugary smiles and lovely long limbs would
find themselves giggling behind
your bedroom door, whilst you thanked
the gods for this bizarre good fortune.
Do not be fooled by her eden-red lips.
She would *******, ruthlessly,
laugh as you scrabbled to cover your
dignity, hands shaking and eyes wide,
if she was human. After, as you caught
your breath, she'd ask for a coffee.
Her voice would be sweeter than
high fructose corn syrup, and you,
mumbling drone, would obey.
As you buzzed around the kitchen,
her shadow would fall across your back
and, without warning or meaning,
she'd shoot you in the head and splatter
your brains across the kitchen wall.
She'd admire the pattern, the glistening grey matter,
swirl her delicate finger in your shot-to-pieces synapses.
Then she'd leave, go for breakfast, sit down,
flutter soot-grey eyes at some unsuspecting,
pancake-eating guy on a grimy table opposite.
Your insides would still be
coating her perfect fingernails.
Annelyra Feb 2014
Society has given me a snow globe,
to wear on a ribbon round my neck.
There is nothing inside, only confetti,
in multi-coloured silk. It shimmers.
It is a beautiful gift. Thank you, Society.

This year Society said, here, have a new
snow globe. This one is bigger and the
confetti is black and grey. It still shimmers.
Here, a new chain in silver, to match.
Thank you, Society.

This snow globe is heavy, and the confetti
is bigger, it falls slower, the shimmer in
the silk doesn't quite catch the light and
the weight of it makes the chain chafe
against the back of my neck. I can't
take it off, though, that'd be strange.

I have to carry my snow globe in both
of my hands now, because it is so big.
The problem is, I haven't got any room
to carry anything else because my snow globe
is weighing me down, my hands are calloused
but I haven't a choice, I have to carry it
and smile, in case other people notice and
start to talk, as they shake their own
glittering rainbow snow globes,
that all seem so tiny and elegant,
spinning on rose and honey ribbons
around their soft white necks.

Society replaced my snow globe. This one
is made from sheets of frosted glass. I am
in the middle, with the black strips of
sharp paper around my aching feet.
Nobody else seems to notice as long as I
go about my business. That's hard to do,
because it's huge and stifling, and I'm
sure people are staring. I can't always see
through the glass, and I can't really hear,
so I get worried that they are whispering
and laughing. In fact I'm sure they are, so
I get angry, and start beating my fists
on the sides. Their blurry faces back away
in shock and what looks like disgust.
It is very lonely in the silence
of my secret glass dungeon.
Out of nowhere, the paper snow starts
falling, and it's thick and sharp, so I
curl into a ball, just until it stops.
I don't know what makes it start.
Then I haul myself from under the
dark, crinkling lake and try to brush
it all off. It gets into my hair,
and my eyes; it gets into my mouth.
In a panic I rip it off my skin
and out of my hair, scared of
all the papery precipitation clinging
to me, scared they'll see it and think
I'm not clean, or something.
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