everyone wants something and everyone doesn't want to be alone. to be lonely. that ***** man with sad eyes sitting on the sidewalk, alone and in the rain. passing, passing, passing. passing time, passing people, passing lives. or maybe you're in your home, 500 floors up. still alone, but in luxury. that isolated woman with lonely eyes and red lips and faux fur and classy cigarettes. parent's never paid much attention. both live alone, wanting a crossing of paths with someone, anyone. different spectrum of societies, suicide to be seen together. it was raining, the young woman being into the alley by men. they wanted her money. greedy, greedy, greedy. she was the youngest of the family, her family living in more extravagant places than she. she'd never be missed until the money ran out. she would die, she knew she would, shivering in the rain as they ripped off her expensive coat, pulling her hair. somehow she felt okay, at least if they killed her she wouldn't be alone. there was only darkness between her and her death, streaks of lightning lighting the terror on her smudged face. the ***** man sitting along the wall could see the woman in the white coat, not even fighting for her life. he didn't understand that, almost angered. she had money, had everything. he had nothing, even less as he got up and splashed his way through the dark to grab one of the men by the throat. he was choking, coughing as he kicked him down and his partner ran off. they hadn't expected to be challenged. the woman was pleading, her coat in a puddle. she was taking off her jewelry, shoving it into the man's hand. he shook his head, seeing the loneliness in the eyes of the woman, her dark hair wet and frizzy. she didn't seem to understand as he merely placed her jewelry in her coat and wrapped it back around her shoulders, despite it being cold and wet. they were both already cold and wet. she was frazzled, perplexed, and finally she hugged the man, sobbing in tune with the rain. they went separate ways, the woman getting to her lonely warm penthouse and stripping out of her wet clothes. they lay all over the floor along and the she laid naked on the rug. she didn't want to move, shakily opening her cigarettes as she rolled on her back. the next afternoon she was back outside, tired and silent as she wandered back into the alley. she felt empty, staring at the place where she could have met her end. she ripped off her rings and her pearls, hitting the muddy puddles along the wall. and then she heard a voice along the wall, telling her it wasn't really wise to throw away expensive things. it was the same man, standing there in the same wet clothing and sad eyes. sad eyes and lonely eyes. she said it didn't matter if you were alone, and he said he was alone and it mattered since he had nothing. the woman with lonely eyes asked the man with sad eyes if he had something: a home, a wife, children, and he answered no each time. she took his hand, walking him to the end of the alley, saying he could choose to have something. he said he did want something, but didn't know what something even looked like. she said it was okay and they walked together into the elevator to the 500th floor where he found her clothes across the floor, glass shattered in the kitchen. it was a start of something, and he didn't care if it was ugly at first and lonely eyes became a little less lonely and sad eyes became a little less sad. the something he was looking for was in her and the life of not being lonely she was looking for was in him.

Sometimes when I look at the stars,
I see the faces of the ones I've lost.
The ones forgotten.
As if they hid themselves away
from the hideous faces scraping along the earth, away from me.
Just memories made of constellations, milky ways our family albums, solar systems our family trees.
Hot, flaming, swirling lights of gas moving across a plane of vast forgetfulness.

hearts beating faster faster in our chests i don't know where we're going or where we'll be but the sky is dark like fabric black as can be stretched tight over the earth and someone poked tiny holes to let bright spheres of gas and light through. stars are funny, you see, they're like the stories of people trapped in a dimension beyond our own comprehension. all seven sins still present and the forecast is cloudy with a chance of raining cats and dogs. we were there very happy and ****** up in ourselves then something changed and we fell apart and your hand was always gone probably down the pants of another. i just wanted to say "*******" as I scream from the rooftops. shingles splitting down into the street. i miss that hand that used to always be in mine but it doesn't really matter now because you fell for another. i bet her apartment isn't ****** like the downtown hole I reside in and I bet her mattress doesn't squeak oh so horribly when we get down to business. i bet you even love the way she straightens her hair with heat and glitter and wears something nice something more than a dress from a thrift store bin at the end of my street. i don't care where you'll go and i don't care where you'll be because you hurt me inside and i locked out the key. i'm sure that it's black a slower beat in my core and a duller thudding sound as your lies infected me. the sad thing is i'll still be here in this hole apartment in downtown not waiting for you but knowing someday you may come crawling back and on that day i'm so happy to say that i may invite you in and then step on your hands with my ***** old shoes. i'm sorry no really i'm not and i will forgive someday but for now you truly disgust me.

black black holes and white white stars, circling, dancing in the that black black sky and from it tears of blue blue rain falls in time with our sorrows. red red blood pumped through our veins and our red red hearts pumped in tune of our favorite song and we couldn't feel pain and we couldn't feel love but we took what we could and that was enough. i stubbed my toe when i was nine and i smashed my hand falling out your green green tree in your green green yard and stained the ground a dark red red. the white white doctors were baffled by the thought that i felt no pain and i just said it was because of your brown brown eyes and the way it felt like a blue blue ocean i lost myself in. maybe i drowned in those blue blue eyes and my pain was lost in the white white surf and that was all i needed to know and that was enough. when i was twelve there was boy in my class who called me names like "fatty" and "ugly" which weren't original but stung like knives and when i held his hand on the fourth of july and kissed his nose under the bright bright lights it didn't feel anything quite like you, but that was enough.  do you remember that on that day of bright bright flowers and white white daisies and gold gold marigolds and we sat on a blue blue blanket listening to our song and we held hands and kissed noses and i felt all of you but you felt none of me? i guess that's how the story goes and that is enough and enough is enough and when i turned twenty-one we drank too much and you went home under the black black sky and you said you felt all of me but i felt none of you and that is enough. i drank myself to death into a deep deep hole in the dead dead ground and i finally felt all of you but you felt none of me and enough is enough.

Let's talk about our lives, our wonderful wonderful lives. The lives we think about day to day because we live them so carelessly in the sense of our own well-being. We care about us and only us. Us in the sense that we are only ourselves, no one else we pretend to be. Only this happens so often, where ignorant people unaware of themselves pretend to be someone else. Someone else they think they truly are but in fact are not. The thoughts in my head are real, but am I in fact real? A true persona of myself? A young woman in black, white, teal, gray? Who are we really? Question, question, question, question? I have brunette hair of rolling waves and eyes that are blue and pale like a cloudy sky and skin as pale as marble and snow and lips cracked and pale as well, like dried up carnation petals. I am a young woman, or girl, or young lady. I know what I am. I am a mentally unstable entity, a ******* edge of a chasm of the mind. The tiny demons, crawling black and quiet and fast. "Did you see that?" I'd ask and all replies say, "No." Am I losing my mind? A truly mind barreling, thought projecting spiral of my own demons appearing on my suburbia street. Act happy, say hello, smile. Routine, routine, routine, routine. Don't you see? We're all in hell. Am I the only one who knows it? I've turned, a young innocent girl, to a black on black wearing delinquent of a routine, cliche, conservative era. I am different, whether I am real is still my ever mind numbing question. I am not Good. I am not Bad. I am not Cute. I am not Preppy. I am not Rich. I am not Poor. I am not Goth. I am not Emo. I am not Grunge. I am Not. I am Not. I am Not. Am I Not? Who am I? Who are you? I have friends, friends of great birth and creation. They are my soul mates, though not of romantic kind. They are my soul mates in the sense that our minds meld in a precious manner, like gold. No, like molasses and syrup. If heated up we are painfully fast and overwhelming, covering everything in sight. When at room temperature, we are sickly sweet and slow, waiting for a thought to pick and pull apart upon ourselves. Their beautiful minds are like Evergreens and Aspens: partly permanent and luscious, partly colorful and changeable. Folie à Duex: Madness Has Two. A well used term, but my term is Madness à Trois: Madness Has Three. A maniacally made trio of doom, composed of minds far greater than any Diseased Adult Mind.

You placed an X over the eyes of ones you said you loved the most. Your promises I see now as something hollow, dead,
like a baby bird shoved too early from the nest.
The eyes in your head are just as dead, cold even.
Just icebergs shoved into empty, hollowed sockets.
Icebergs that **** and impale with a sharpened glare.
Your hair frozen over, frosted from lack of warmth.
A dead, menacing heart lives in you. A hollow chest cavity of rib and bone, no substance, no heart.
I'd tell you I'm not afraid, but I am.
Not of you, but becoming you.
I wish to never feel so dead that I forget the things I love, like the warmth of my finger tips to my toes.

kids, kids, kids. they're running, screaming. in a car, windows down, they're running, running. it's so far and they know, they know the distance. there's a boy, tall, lanky, and has short bedhead of black. there's a girl, tall, slender, her eyes are blind. her hair is purple, a pastel of insanity. after all she couldn't even see the **** color, or the length. but she could feel.
her hair hit her hips, long curls of proud progress, and her hair was lilac because she could feel the pigment. now he could see and he would tell her of the sky and the stars every morning and night. she wanted to see the mountains, and he was taking her. they both knew she'd never see them, but she'd feel them.
hard rock, stubby brush, the uncomfortable and unknown terrain that comes along with a mountain. they know the distance, they know the risks, they know the irony of it all.
they were done, school's over. that hell was history. college was new, probably still hell, but new. "It's cloudy tonight, there's a fog this morning," he'd say, holding her hand to his chest so she could feel the truth of it all and the she would write it all down in a notebook she couldn't see. he led her to the massive drop, warning not to step past him. he was her barrier between heaven and hell and so much more. she wanted love, wanted it all. she could feel her own love, though never see and he wanted kids, kids he could see and she could feel.
they were happy, sitting on the roof of that car. he told her scorpio was out, her favorite of them all, though scorpio was hidden behind clouds. that is love he thought, holding her hand to his chest. she knew it was a lie, for she could feel, but this was love she thought. this was their arrangement.
this was love, they knew.

they're back, in the hallway. i thought they only stayed in the dark and turned up at night. they're escalating, following me with vicious ideals of demonic intent. my demons are real, how they got out i'll never know. is my mind a hell mouth, a gate where human souls of the ****** pour from? am i apart of the ******, or am I merely just an anchor to them? i'm terrified, wondering where i'll see them next. it's never full on, just glimpses and images in the corners of my eyes. they crawl like slithering beasts and serpents of sin, the very idea of sin. are we all eve's garden, the serpents living in our minds which pose as the tree we should not take from and eat? are we ****** vessels for sin to tempt and thrive? after all that's all we heavenly humans do isn't it? sin, sin until we can't anymore, then remember our repentance? then we are saved. i wish i felt saved. i'm tired of my demons, i'm tired of fear. today i told the people i loved the most about my demons, that they terrify me. i can never tell if it's me or something truly demented. i shall repent and then be saved but is the fact that i am saved going to be enough for my diseased mind? all i have is question after question and my demons only snicker and laugh in hate as they crawl on their bellies like cowards.

sitting on the hill of dreams, the house behind us in a field of golden grasses made of the very same dreams. holding hands, we speak of the parents who raised us and how they left a large wake in the hearts and the minds of ourselves. we then think about the wakes we'll leave in the children we make and love and chastise and hope for. thinking of a tiny, raven haired, little girl with eyes as blue as the ocean surf down below our lovely house. she'll grow into our home, filling it with hopeful dreams and metal guitar strings and black and blue and floral and gold. maybe a singer, a painter, a reader, a writer, a lover, a fighter, a dreamer. growing into that beautiful girl with long black hair like the inky sky and eyes like the deep deep inquisitive, mysterious ocean and legs long, with a purpose of going the distance. she'd want to go around the world, around the ocean in a bright red sail boat, sails of heavy, wind lifted canvas. though for now, we are stuck here, as she will be too. desperate to find a way into the realism of the world, though we only wish to dream away the time and the love we share.

darling if you just let me hold you, I'll never hurt you. there's a wind that comes through here, and carries the voices of a thousand souls. the smell of a thousand people, dirt, lilac, spice, shampoo, roses, peaches, sea spray. there's a town in the trees, things happen, strange things. love and pain and art and ****** and secrets and poetry. the hair on your head ruffled just by one wind, the one wind running through the town and the trees, the wind that carries the breath and smells of a thousand people. a wind that carries the voice of a preacher living in his own sin and gin and dirt under his nails. dirt of the ****** he buried in the name of the Lord. a wind that carries the screams of woman losing her child, the scream of a woman who brings another child into the town in the trees. the same wind brings your voice to me and the same wind brings the smell of your peppermint after shave and spicy breath of ***** and ***. the wind you followed into the sea on a boat that was lost forever to me. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I don't know how to follow the wind after you, I wish I could for I need you to watch the way I make art after a drink and a smoke or a soft sober moment we share. it doesn't need to make sense, only to you and me to watch scorpio sting and squirm in the sky, stuck. the tiny collection of stars we love and tattooed on the skin of our scarred wrists. you'd hold me and kiss the inside of my thumb, telling me it was the way it should be until I threw down the things you loved most. you forgave me but left, though I begged you not. and then the boat and the sky and the earth and the waves consumed you and I lost the thing I loved the most and can't take back and I won't take it back for it was beautiful and the tattoo on my wrist will fade and distort but the love I have will not.

I don't know how to write anymore, as if I have absolutely no purpose to use myself for.  The time on the wall, concealed in the clock, ticks and chimes at every mistake I've ever made. They've come back to me, but I wish they'd leave to go back to the damning place they had first crawled  from. I feel sick, a hole my stomach has ****** itself into. There's nothing special about me, a broken mind alone with it's thoughts. My jealously grows, envious vines that consume my soul and eat away my sanity. Even when I shut myself away, my own self isolation, I still hope to be found, to be pulled out of myself. Hoping for someone to keep me out of myself, but as much as I should hope to be found I cannot only rely on anyone to find me. I wish it could be as easy as falling down a well, my only job to wait for someone to crawl down and bring me out, without myself having to truly help myself. I cannot choose to not be like this, it's almost chemical, hardwired into the makeup of my mind. It's not as simple as flipping a switch, to change a light bulb that can no longer light itself, this is a poison. A poison that is inky and black and fills my veins until my organs give out. I can't be found when I leave. How long I wait until I realize no one will find me or follow me or pull me from myself is up to me. My own silly delusion of being saved. It's just the waiting. The waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. Maybe the waiting will **** me first.

the classic story of two, the love connection made from a single touch, look, conversation. a classic misunderstanding, pushing apart, confusion. wondering why. that's all it was, a misunderstanding. it never made the love any less real. tossing sheets, a song playing, rough touches and love bruises. was there really anything else to love?

What is this obliterating wave of nothing that shakes my bones? A kind of self-righteous hate I have for this beating heart of mine. The heart that is mine in the chest of broken ribs and bruised lungs. I can't breathe and no one can see. A sort of silent film of black and white, standing in a room where people mill mindlessly around me. A sweet dose of pain to the bloodstream. Hand me another bottle of numbing and tasteless liquid. I don't know how to tell anyone what I feel and the whole sickening trauma of saying "I'm fine" over and over becomes so easy in the sense of doing nothing about anything.

am i just a bad kid? so bad i have to yelled at and scrutinized? probably, but i can't take the pressure. my dream is to run away, to get out, but i can't even do a simple and small task that could allow this future to be possible. it's dark here, where my demons reside. i broke my streak, cut my ever lasting ribbon as it pours thinly in fraying red out of my side. it doesn't hurt, just makes me empty, hollow. i've stopped hurting, and gone straight to nothing. it's easier this way isn't it? i can hurt you, but you can't hurt me. after all how can you hurt someone that doesn't even feel at all? or really it's more like someone that's been hurt so much in every way, they know what to expect. i hurt so much and cry so much and scream so much and then it goes right back to nothing. no one believes me but i've got the bump and the crack to prove it but that's not enough because i'm a child to be dealt with and that is all. i've distanced myself, i thought i'd leave and i've decided i will. but i'm leaving for good, and that's a promise.

i'm having a mental breakdown and i can't tell anyone.