Can you taste them?
Those slow melting morsels of sugar,
just lingering on the corners of your mouth...

You let them drip from your spoon,
let them roll off your tongue
and dress your intentions.
As they try and undress me...

Everything's inviting,
the presentation, the flavor, the texture...
Like Bartlett pears:
"Granules of sugary sand, made to melt and fill every taste bud."

The warmth of your phrasing,
reassuring with their momentary high
and their lingering desire for more...

Heavy with mood,
rich with aphrodisiacs'
and smooth like that cocky-*** grin...

These words are like ants,
attracted to the smell of decadence...
Sweet rotting decadence...

Watch them decay,
as the truth beneath...
Reveals the lack of sustenance.

Live on these words?
On these hollow, sugar-coated statements,
and be satisfied?
*******.

I need more than that.

You left me nauseous,
and filled with this stain...

Keep rolling those lines,
make them smooth and inviting,
make them enticing,
make them all yours....

Never again,
will I indulge you.

I need a tall drink of water,
the wind wiping through my hair,
and this pavement,

To guide my sullied feet,
as I "beat on against the current..."
of my self-indulgent past.

I know why I don't write anymore,
everything I write is dull and out of pain.
Nothing new, nothing amazing, nothing even worth while.

I apologize if you're reading this new *******;
wasting your time if you want to be inspired here.

I used to have a strength,
that picked me up every time I fell,
but I don't have the will to even try anymore.

It's never worth it anyways.

Maybe it will be easier now.

Easier and Numb.

Why should I bother, when it never amounts to what I aim for?
I've lost the want,
to be better than I am.

Now I'm just rambling;
just looking for a reason to actually hit delete on my account,
and I truly have plenty.

It's sad frankly,
in my writing this,
I'm asking someone to give me a reason to belong,
which is pathetic to me.

I'm not a beggar,
but no longer a fighter.
What does that leave me with?

The honest,
heartfelt truth,
is the hardest to except.

The truth,
that I can fall if I want to,
and I don't expect anyone to help me up.

I'll watch you walk away from me,
I won't judge you for it;
I expect it.

With that one look as you pass,
I see the truth in your eyes.

So go ahead and say it.

Go on, tell me this is ****.
Tell me I can't do it.
Tell me I'm pathetic.
Tell me I just want attention.
Tell me I'm wasting my time.
Tell me everything you want,

because I already know.
I already agree with you.


I finally agree with you.

Congratulations my dear.
You win.

My fingertips are numb.
The fear of my words swallowing me.
Just as Eve devours the apple...

The Truth.
Is nothing but a feeling in the form of words.

The Game.
Just a way to make you understand.
Make you see...

But you were not the one who lost.

Light swims within these shadows,
reminding me of my uncertainty.
I lay here, drowning in my thoughts...

I did not understand.

That a game,
could be so dangerous.

The war rages on around you, around everyone.
Yet, none of you see it.
Why would you?

Your eyes do not know me, though they wish on...
You know my face.
You know my words.
You know my game.
But, what else do you know?

You do not know about Autumns leaves,
piling up around me.
You do not know about Winters grasp,
holding me to the ground.
You do not know about Springs puddles,
how I drowned in them... Begging for air...

You do not know about Summers fear,
how it held me in my tracks....
Daring me to touch its face.

I wanted to know what it was like...
To be wanted for more,
than what I have learned I am worth.

The water, will never wash that from me.
This you cannot realise.
I do not blame you.

I have lost it all.










The trembling lips of a broken woman.










You could have had it all.











My heart of ash...
Now watch it crumble in your hands,
and float through these numb fingertips...

The sink clogged, with the hair I'm pulling out.
The deranged dripping of the pipes on the veneer...
A marvel.
To see what people will do to feel like they have some sense of control...

The window sill,
covered in dust, paint chips, mold,
The carcasses of dead flies...
There is an exquisite beauty to lonliness.

It's something relatable.
A way of being that is attainable, but unwanted.
It's just like this day,  
unwanted by all.

Some may though; want it.
Perhaps they are simply afflicted,
In need of a shoulder for their worries
and a day to hold them.

I don't think they would rip their hair out to do so.
Not like me.
Who cares?

I'll just watch now,
as the blood drips down the sink,
on the day they all needed,
when the pipes burst and dripped the mudded water
onto the the fresh veneer...