I'm sorry about the blood I left on your shirt, on your arms, on your neck, on the hood of your car, on the leather interior. I'm sorry you had to see it. I know you never wanted to see me.

I should have known from the beginning that I was in this all alone, because that's how it always goes, isn't it?

Here I am, a stretch of skin over fragile bones, tear-striken and bleeding for you and there you are, all cold eyes and statuesque.

I'm sorry for vying so hard for your attention, for affection that you are so incapable of giving.

I'm sorry for trying to know you, for wanting to learn you, all before I gave you a chance to know me, if you ever wanted to know me at all.

I should have known from the beginning that this was all for nothing, that you'd never want someone like me, so quiet, so unkept. I fooled myself into thinking I had a chance, and maybe I did at first but I lost that, didn't I?

Here I am, a mess of broken bones and pieces of glass sticking out of my chest. I'll take it out and hand it to you, make a chandelier out of my broken glass heart and I'll light up your bedroom with my affection the way your lack of affection lit up a fire within me.

And there you are, leaning against your car with smoke billowing from your lips, eyes in my direction but looking past me; me on the pavement, shivering and bleeding in the moonlight but you're so cool, so coolly pretending that I no longer exist.

Congratulations, you got your wish.

i.* There are glass shards where her heart used to be. This beaten thing, this broken thing, this fragile thing; it beats while black blood pulses through the little cracks of glass. This heart, what keeps her alive will also be her cause of death and she knows it. It has loved and lost, lost itself in the quells of heartache. It is not whole but it's still there, beating on.

ii. When she places this heart in your hands, I beg, do not grimace at this hollow, broken thing. It's not pretty, I know, but it is hers and when she gives it to you, do not run. This heart is heavy, this heart is weak but if you've made it this far -- made a home in her chest -- I beg, please stay.

iii. She's moody and sometimes much too quiet but this is not to be taken as disinterest. It's in silence where she feels the most at home. And if your home lies near her glass heart, you are home where she is. The quiet, dark rooms in her mind are where her thoughts of you lay safe. All of the things that she'd never say, but she thinks of them often. They are secrets to you, but they mean everything to her.

iv. Sometimes she'll look at you and she won't stop. A lingering stare with glowing eyes and a slight curl at the corners of her lips. She'll look at you like you hung the moon and stars, like you created the constellations with your bare hands. This is how she drinks you in, and when you decide to leave, this is how she will remember you.

v. She won't remember all of the arguments you've had, nor the spiteful names you've called her. She won't remember the time you nearly threw her against the wall in a drunken rage. Accidents happen. *"It'll never happen again," you said. "I'm so sorry," you said.

vi. She will remember you smiling. She will remember you laughing so hard that you couldn't breathe, she will remember you looking down at her with a twinkle in your eye when you first told her you loved her. These are the memories that she stores, the ones that play on repeat in her broken glass heart; images projected on the walls of her chest and with every beat comes a ripping tide of black blood.

vii. She may call you at 3am, just a little drunk and very lonely. She'll tell you that she needs you and that she's so sorry for being the way that she is. She's so sorry for making you want to leave. She's pleading and there are tears in her eyes when she opens her front door but she hurls herself at you, arms tight around your neck, but you don't move.

viii. This is desperation, this is how she tries to win you back. This is when it's almost unbearable to watch her. The beautiful girl you knew replaced by a lovesick drunk. But you're here and you know her, you know better than to leave her like this. So you stay and you watch her, ensure that she doesn't do anything stupid.

ix. You sleep in the same bed and her legs are tangled with yours. Her head lays on your chest and for a moment, it's almost like nothing's changed. But these walls reek of love scorned. These bed sheets are a straitjacket. The girl that was once your home is a noose.

x. You wake up as the sun begins to slip through the blinds of her window. She's still clinging to you, and it's almost like old times but you get up before the noose gets any tighter. You try not to wake her, try to leave undetected but her sleepy voice stops you. Her eyes are still closed and her arms are reaching for a man who isn't there.

"Stay, don't go. I'll eat you up, I love you so..."

But you're already out the door.

He smells like cigarettes and cheap whiskey.
He smiles something radiant,
        and when he kisses you,
              there are fireworks in your head.

He takes your hand and says,
     "You are so s p e c i a l."
Says,  "You are so b e a ut i f u l."
Says,  "You are so p e r f e c t."

And you wonder how many times
he's said those words to other girls.
How many other girls have stood
   in the same position you are.
But he's saying them to you now
and that's all that matters, right?

He plays your favorite sad song while he drives you home
             in the dead of night, but you don't tell him.
You don't tell him how many times
       you've cried yourself to sleep
with those words playing in your ears.

Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face.

You don't tell him but you hope that
somehow,  he knows. Somehow.

there are cinder blocks
hanging from your rib cage
and you're still wondering
why it's so easy for you
to sink so d e e p
into the
       ocean
             f l o o r.

but it'd be better if they were
less of a metaphor
                   and with me now,
pulling me down into the dirt
where i'm supposed to be
instead of breathing still in
             m i s e r y.

If I fall from the highest peak of the mountains nearby,
Will you remember me in five years?
Or will I flee from your mind,
Only to return when I'm mentioned,
If I'm ever mentioned again?

If I disappeared for awhile,
Cut all ties and communication,
Never contact you or anyone else again...

Will you worry for me?
Will you wonder where I've been,
Where I'm going,
If I'm alive?

Will you come running for me?
Will you care to, anyway?

If I told you I was nothing, I was no one,
Would you try to convince me otherwise?
If I told you that I hated myself,
Hated who I was and who I am,
Would you agree?

And if I bared my soul to you, would you run and hide?

I would.

But I doubt if you'd ever come running for me.

My room smells like smoke and my bed sheets all reek of you.
It's hard to sleep with your scent filling my head,
like some kind of euphoric high that I never asked for.

Maybe I should have been more vocal.

But I like the nights that I spend with you, though few and far between;
Like a breath of fresh air, but there's smoke veils everywhere.

And maybe, maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm projecting something out of nothing and I'm wrong about everything. Maybe, maybe.

Oh, it's probably nothing.
It's a fluke, you're a phony.
I'm just a fool who falls too easily over cheap whiskey and the stale smoke from menthol cigarettes.

Isn't that how it always goes?

It's been said that
It's the little things
That make the
biggest difference;
They mean the most,
Always.

Something so simple
like the tiny hands
of a smiling baby,
Her footprints making marks
On her mothers heart.

The way that she giggles
At silly faces and TV shows
And clings to mama at the door
before she leaves; "Please stay,"
what she wants to say,
But the words aren't there yet
And she'll cry until she falls asleep,
Then run to you and kiss you
When that door opens once again.

It's the little things, really.
Her smile, her laugh, the soft sighs
When she sleeps and the way
Her heart beats.

She'll grow and be wise,
But she'll love you the same.
And those footprints on your heart
Will always remain.

I’d like to know where she’s been, this little daisy that stands on the opposite side of the room.  She stands like me, arms crossed with a red solo cup dangling between dainty fingers.  Maybe mine aren’t dainty, but the cup dangles either way.  It’s clear as day, this isn’t where she wants to be.  I certainly can’t blame her.  I’d imagine she was forced here, convinced by a friend, a sister, a roommate.  This isn’t her scene, nor is it mine.  Why else would we stand in our respective corners, eyeing the drunken fiends in the room with nothing but pure disgust?  

We are the same, she and I.  I wonder if she sees me, too.

I can’t take my eyes off of her, the beautiful girl who stands on the opposite side of the room.  She takes small sips from her red cup - bourbon, I’d like to think - and maintains her previous stance.  How badly I wish to drag my tattered shoes across the creaky hardwood floor that we both stand on, extend my hand to her and invite her into conversation.  She’ll smile a close-lipped smile, nodding as she places her small hand in mine.

“Needy,” she’ll say, and her emerald green eyes will glow something radiant. “My name’s Needy.”

And I’ll do my best to muster the courage it takes to mutter my own name, a growl of Brett.  I’ll manage a smile, manage to suppress the urge to stop her right then and there and run my fingers through her golden hair.  But I’ll humor her instead and make her smile.  I’ll joke and complain about how drab it is to be here, this New Year’s Eve party we were both brought to against our own will.  She’ll agree, telling me of her original plans to lounge on her couch with a bottle of Merlot, eyes glued to **** Clark’s countdown and drooling over some Seacrest character.  How I’d love to be in her presence for such an event, to rub her shoulders while her excitement for whatever celebrity guest came on next rose.  I’d tell her my original plans, taking a seat in front of my prized Royal typewriter with a bottle of Tennessee Honey.  She’d ask me what I would write and I’d give her a crooked smile just before quoting a legend.

“Nothing really. I’d just sit and bleed.”

And she’d flash her pearly whites with a knowing grin, one that I would return out of sheer satisfaction in knowing that she knew what I was talking about.  That’s how it would start, the beginning of our little storm.  She’d give me no warnings, my sweet little Needy, not telling of the little grenade that she really was.  

I’d accept it, accept her, and love her, forever, my little time bomb.

It’d start out fine, just as any great romance would; I’d be tender, romance her and charm her to my wits end. She’d appreciate me and show me her affection in any way she could; little notes tacked up in random places, a simple “morning,” “night,” text. She’d trace shapes along my chest, and bury her face deep in the crook of my neck.  She’d mumble, “I love you,” in her sleep, and I’d kiss her softly on the cheek.  Call me possessive, call her weak; she’s my little daisy, and mine only to keep.

We’d be the kids that are seen only in the movies, troubled and disturbed by one another but with no desire to detach.  She’d **** me and I’d **** her, each with words so hauntingly true;  I hate you, I love you, I don’t want you near.  You’re awful, you’re difficult, you’re so stuck in the dark.  I hate you, I love you, I can’t stop thinking of you,  and we’d still kiss each other goodnight and endure another day.  We’d be destructive, she and I.

And I’d be crazy, driven mad by her, for her, forever, my needy little Needy.

I’d imagine she would hate me after quite some time, so much that her hate would battle her love and she’d lose either way.  And I’d remember that night we first met, the night that I stole her light in that little white dress.  It’ll hit me then, as I cradle her in my arms, wiping her tears, stroking her hair.  I’ll realize then what I did and curse myself for my crime.

“You used to love **** Clark and that Seacrest fellow,” I’d mumble as we lay by a fire.

“And you used to love me.” she’d say, almost a whisper, and my heart would tear in two right there, burning with the flames that danced before my eyes.

And it’s awful, knowing that I took this girl, so bright and lively, and dimmed her light to the point that she didn’t exist, not without me.  My little Needy, always telling me she’d need me.  Such a fitting name for my beautiful girl.

Maybe then I’d realize my mistake.  I’d hold her and apologize profusely.  I’d press her into me with the hopes that she’d become one with me, understand me, hear my thoughts as loudly as I heard them in my mind.  Would she accept me, too?  Or would she throw me aside like the piece of trash that I am?  I wouldn’t blame her, no.  But my Needy, my needy little thing; she’d cling to me and I’d cling to her.  I’d be a mess without her and I’m already one with her, here, forever.

I’d like to think I was right about her, the girl I see twirling the tip of her finger in her red solo cup.  I’d like to think my own private fantasy was filled with accuracy, the story of us that is yet to be written, if it’s ever written at all.  I’ll never muster the courage to know her name, nor will she know mine.  Instead, I’ll continue to watch her from my side of the room, protecting her from a distance should any harm come her way at this god awful party.

And finally, after what feels like forever, her emerald green eyes meet mine across the way.  She smiles a small closed-lip smile and raises her dainty little fingers to give me a small wave. I lift my red solo cup to my lips, tipping back the warm ***, savoring the burn down my throat before I give her the same crooked smile I imagined myself giving her.  I won’t talk to her, I won’t make that treacherous walk towards her.  I won’t tell her my name and she won’t tell me hers.  I’ll keep what I know about my little daisy in my head.  I’d doubt if she’s anything like I imagined, standing there in that snow white dress.  I’d like to keep this image in my head, the one I have of a sweet little thing, needy and clinging to me and only me.

My fate is sealed as I watch a burly fellow approach her, and those pearly whites flash at the sight of him, and her heels lift from the hardwood floor that we stand on together as her arms wrap around his neck.

My little Needy, how wrong could I be?  She doesn’t need me.

Reckless and unsure,
She sits with her Marlboro Lights;
Smoke cloaks her face
and she takes her drags faster than Gordon's race.

"I smoke to die," she says,
And he looks on in perpetual infatuation,
Looking and longing,
twisted fantasizing of the girl he'll never really have.
And he feels her, her warmth,
Though layers upon layers all block her touch.

It isn't enough that his eyes fill with lust at the mention of her name.
Alaska Young, and the fire in his chest flames and flames;
And suddenly she's gone,
Straight and fast, right out of the labyrinth,
One drunken night gone awry.
And poor old Pudge with no last words to get him by.

I was proud of myself for once,
and everyone knows how rare that is,
and I hoped that you would be too
but you weren't, not that I know of.

So it's back to the bottle I go.
My emotions shuffle in one by one,
sealed with a cork.
I'll throw the bottle out at sea,
hope to god it doesn't return,
but I think the bottle acts as a boomerang,
or maybe I threw it out too soon,
because it always comes back.

It mutates when it returns,
some big monster just waiting,
waiting behind the glass
for me to mess up,
for me to fall apart,
for me to unleash him
so he can do his job.

And I'm tired of accepting defeat
because now, all I am is weak
and where will that get me?
I'll never reach my peak.
So I'll fight for the weak,
fight for the lonely,
fight for the obsolete
because no one else will,
and I'd hate to see another
fall in my path.

Maybe then you'll be proud.
You will, won't you?

i've been a little down
not too much, just a tad
and i'm not quite sure why.
i think it's a multitude of things
with all of these big changes ahead;
finals and graduation, one last summer
to do all that i want before adulthood,
before the real world, before childhood
is over.

i'll blame it on stress,
blame it on the lack of sleep,
blame it on anything, really,
rather than just say i'm weak.
but i am, i am, i am -
i am weak, so weak, so fragile
and small.

small, with dreams bigger than the sun,
brighter than every star up above,
hotter than the whitest of flames.
my dreams are bigger than i,
and shouldn't that be enough?
should i not be guided by such fantasies,
moved into action at the push of
a bright and shining future?

maybe i'm not so weak.
maybe i just need sleep.
maybe i'm just tired,
too tired to keep up
with 5 days of the week.

I can still see your face,
an angelic vision in my mind.
The darkness cloaks me,
but your skin glows
and your radiant figure
moves swiftly across the room,
tip-toes into bed and rests right next to mine.

Even with my eyes closed,
I still see you, and you are mine.

At least until the dream ends
and the lights flicker in;

*come nightfall, we'll meet again.

The Trouble With Assumptions
come when no words are spoken,
But plenty are implied.

The crash of her lips and
Her nicotine tongue
had me feeling five times sprung.
And I didn’t know it at the time,
but my feelings towards her were hanging
Loosely on an invisible line
And I’d have never known,
had her lips not met mine.

If anything, I knew the Ice Queen
Was trouble upon our first meeting.
Somewhere deep down, I knew
With all of the fire within me,
that she’d burn me to a fine dust,
Sprinkle me around until
I found some place to rest.

I didn’t know what to expect the first time
she grabbed my hand.
It was gratifying, electric,
like magnets, all over magnetic.
She toted me and joked with me,
indefinitely filled me with glee.

But she was distant and reserved,
and I hardly had the nerve
to try and pick apart her brain
and unravel her pretty thoughts.

I assumed that her head was a beautiful mess,
much like my own.
I assumed that she sought thrills from things
Much too dangerous for someone of her size,
and that she didn’t care either way -
she’d been through enough already.
Or so I liked to think.

See, I still don’t know the Ice Queen.
I know the gentle caress of her fingertips,
her breath, hot on my neck,
the curve of her lips and their cotton candy tinge.
I know the curves of her waist,
the arch of her spine,
the softness of her hair,
and the little sparkles in her eyes,
But I still do not know her.

I think I might be a little obsessive.
I’m too insecure to trust that the people in my life will stay in my life.
I am dependent and reliant on other people,
not necessarily to bring me happiness, but just ... to be there.

I guess that’s what happens when you grow up alone.

I’ve had friends come in and out of my life,
a father who came and went like seasons,
and really, no one truly there for me.
But I was there for them.

I am selfless to the people that I don’t want to lose.
I will do whatever it takes to keep those people in my life.
Is that healthy? Is it healthy to be so worried about being alone?
Because that’s my biggest fear. I don’t want to be alone.
As much as I prefer solitude, I need someone, someone, to be there.
Just there.

I think I love too easily, or I love too much. Maybe both.
Once that line is connected, I won’t let go.
I am possessive, I am slightly jealous.
I think I love too easily, or I love too much.
Maybe both but, no one loves me back.

I guess love has many interpretations.

I don’t know what kind of love I have in me,
But I know that it’s strong - much stronger than I am.
I know I have enough in me to love the world.
I know I have enough in me. Too much in me.

How cliche: a girl with too much love
and nowhere to put it,
nothing to do with it,
no one to give it to.

And I’d like to give it away,
despite my heart’s apprehensions.
I just have so much
and I don’t know what to do with it.

Is that healthy?

words escape your lips,
breathy and sweet,
a heartfelt tale,
verbatim of the purest of prose.

they are beautiful, my dear,
a string of pretty little things
to form a line so sugary sweet;
a voice like honey to make it all better,
unique to you and only you,
my fair magnifique.

i can see it in your eyes,
the pain you try so hard to hide,
glaring through your icy blues,
vast and deep as the oceans, true.

they are beautiful, my dear,
the windows to your soul.

i am but a coordinate away from the depths of your heart,
though i’ve been lost out at sea from the very start,
deep into thine eyes of misery and mystic mystery.

your body moves in fluid motion,
a certain grace that only you can attain.
it is beautiful, my dear, the way your ringlets fall to frame your face,
your hand goes to move them out of place and reveals the angelic sight of such a lovely face.

you’ve the face of a goddess, did you know that, my dear?
only if you’d let me, i’d make it all you’d ever hear.
would you let me, dear? do i have that honor?
can i draw you near, can i hold you tight?
can i lay with you on this cold winter night?

would you love me, dear?
would you crave me like i crave you?
do you’ve any idea how badly i need you?

your words and your beauty, your scars and mine too,
they’d paint a picture quite dreary, quite sad, quite blue.

two souls lost on a quest for solace,
each trying hard just to bite the bullet.

do i have you, are you mine yet?
do you know what it’s like dear,
to writhe in such pain?

do you know of these wonders,
the extent of my brain?
i am crazy, darling, can’t you see?
i’m driven mad by what you’ve done to me.

your words and your beauty,
your scars and mine too,
a melody made for both me and you.

can you hear that, is it clear?
my voice calls for you, are you near?
please answer, my dear, for i can only shout for so long.

our melody fades back to black and blue,
a tune drowned like cities in tropical rain.

and i’ll still play our song,
every evening by the moon.
my eyes will lift and my voice will rise,
singing and singing of those beautiful eyes.

tell me, do you crave me like i crave you?

but you won’t sing for me, dear,
no calls to want me near.

but you won’t sing for me, dear,
full of fears for what might be near.

but you won’t sing for me, dear, isn’t that true?

you won’t sing for me, dear. will you?

maybe this is how it's supposed to be:
living and breathing with little to no luxury.
appreciative and selfless,
ungrateful, but with love left.
maybe it was meant to be,
the way she lived in misery.

or maybe there's a change of fate,
somewhere along the way,
a certain path to take.
a lesson, an epiphany, a revelation
to change all that she'd known.
how she longed for such tidings,
such chances, so much.

she ached for it, begged for it,
cried out in pain for it - and for what?
nothing she did was enough,
certainly not the kind to be tough;
aggression and roughness,
not her style, not her game.

the answers were clear, metal chained to her feet,
if only she could free them, float upwards and breach.

but the suffering continued,
her lungs filled with liquid -
and the voices continued,
a beckoning call;
"my darling, my darling, pull your head from the water."
why should she, what for?
it's no use, why bother?

she'd reach and she'd reach for the hand above the surface,
pulled straight down further with every attempt.
no calls for help and no one to listen,
no point in continuing the lost cause of a mission.

Once upon a time, her world was filled with light.
A sight optimistic, ecstatic like a birds first flight.
Happiness was the norm, the usual for her world;
Sadness was the enemy, tears rare like precious pearls.

Years later and she's older, wiser beyond her years.
"You're different," they say. "You've a gift."
A gift and a wish and a choice between two worlds,
Two worlds with different paths, two worlds honned with different girls.

The ashes of her cigarette lay muddled at her feet
As she ponders her future and the struggles she may meet.
"Should I do it, should I go? Or should I stay and let it flow?
Should I give up, should I try? Should I stay and let it die?"

She was different, had a gift,
A way with words and a love for it.

Once upon a time, her world was filled with light.
A sight optimistic, ecstatic like a birds first flight.
Happiness was the norm, the usual for her world;
Sadness was the enemy, tears rare like precious pearls.

These days she wallows on her throne,
Sized for a queen, a bed all her own.
Tears spill like precious gems, streaking olive - toned cheeks,
Pooling on her pillow while the poor girl weeps.

A light shines as her eyes close in slumber,
Dimming as the enemy comes out from under.

Her world, once filled with light,
Now struggles with the boundaries of her own first flight.