Its teeth are longer and sharper
than any other unforgiving beast on this planet.
The hairs that ***** on the back of its neck
are charged solely by curiosity,
and its eyes burn electric yellow—
never breaking gaze with so much as a blink.
Indigenous to every silent crack of this earth,
it requires no sleep or acclimation.
No living thing can out run it,
and if it sets its sight in your direction,
do not try to argue your fate.
Its presence alone will bring you to your knees,
and wherever it chooses to sink its fangs
will ensure immediate affliction.
This—a  sickness of insatiable wonder.
To sit still now will surely be the death of you,
because, darling, you’ve been bitten—
plagued forever with knowing that
millions of somewheres have suns
that are rising, and you cannot rest
until you’ve had a chance to paint them all.

I was never a rose,
But green
Not a chrysanthemum,
Nor an orchid
Something cut,
Walked upon
And yet,
You were the dew
And kissed me,
With a thousand moist kisses
Everynight,
Making me sparkle
In the sunrise

-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat

as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
                                                                ­               ---
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,

I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.

Have you ever felt like you deserved a thank you?
Or an apology?
Or just anything that could explain what happened?
Because I have.
There was a boy who came and sat alone everyday at lunch. I saw it and I thought "That is not right. He must come sit with us!"
Then, hell broke out between her and I... It was fixed, but honestly it wasn't. I can't sit at my table anymore because I reached out to that green eyed-blonde haired kid... I sat right next to him and I began to care about him. He met my dad. I wanted it to go somewhere.
Little did I know what his one-track mind wanted.
Little was I able to comprehend how small he saw me along the long list of girls wearing my shoes.
This is all he does, this is what they warned me of.
He's the reason I sneak my food into these walls covered in books and constant shushing.
Because he sits at the table I invited him to.
He made me feel ignorant and self-centered when really I was made his pawn.
He wanted me because he has had everyone else and couldn't have someone walking the halls who wasn't on that list of his.
He sits at my table. He sits with my friends.
But I can't stand to make eye contact with him. I'm still trying to convince him I'm over what has happened.
It's as if I'm trying to survive in this agonizing pit of never-ending drama, the perpetual unraveling of lies, actions that are caught before they are over, apologies that are screamed because they are full of remorse they were caught.
...
He sits at my table, right where he used to hold my hand while sneaking another in the chair beside him.
He sits at my table, and he talks to all my friends.
And he hurts me daily without any remorse, but every intent.

my head feels like it's eating up my heart
draining the lifeblood that kept me going
scraping out memories and happiness, and
leaving the barren remains of a fragile heart

i wish you would leave
vacate the depths of my mind
i like you too much

One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...