Speed demons.  
They wait for me under my bed and whisper my name into the night.

They sink vampire teeth between my eyes,
inject awful toxins that make my mind throb,
pulsing pain like a second heartbeat.

Thump.
               Thump.
                              Thump.

I battle.  
I ignore.  
I cry alone into the night.  

I clutch my sweat-stained sheets,
trying to grasp reality as vivid hallucinations of another dimension
dance across my vision, a world of
***, drugs, and rock and roll.

It’s ******.  It’s sensual.  
It’s perfection, my forbidden fruit,
tempting, red, succulent, delicious,
rocks my body like an untamed sea,
unties the ropes of blue that pin my brain to D
                                                                                  O
                                                                                     W
                                                                                         N
and let me run free.
                                                                            P.
Free. Running Free. Flying High.  So Far U

I can barely breathe, my heart is racing
And this is only memories.  
My head flutters at the idea of flying again.  
And I ache and I pine the touch that only speed can give me,
a high that takes me to heaven on earth.

But still I battle.  I battle for my friends.

They cry, they get upset.  
They tell me I’ve changed,
riding an emotional rollercoaster straight to hell
to blow lines with the big man in red.  
They see a demon inside my sunken face.  They just want me.

To own me.
To own my body.
Once Again.

They plea, they want to help.  
Call, text, show up, knock at my door.  
We will tend to your broken baby bird body.

My body is breaking.

I am frail.  I am small.  I am hollow.  
I am cold, all the time.  My kidneys ache, my head screams,
my weight disappears faster than I can choke down bites of mediocre sandwiches.  
I am tired.  I am sad.  I hole up in my bed for hours
drowsily listening to the sweet sultry voices under my bed.

But I fight.  I say no.  I cry.  And I yearn.  
I never stop wanting those ******* pills.

I’ve never been so lost in such a sweet, innocent kiss.
It was like the smell of the pale, pink petals
Blowing off the cherry blossom trees.
The way they floated so carelessly, so lightly
Into the dark pool below.
That’s how I felt, like a blossom in the breeze
Forever in the present moment.

I know what love tastes like, I taste it when we kiss.
It tastes like melted honey on fever swollen lips.

I know what love looks like, I see it in your eyes.
It sparkles when I laugh, swells in anguish when I cry.

I know what love feels like, it lives in your embrace.
It's butterflies inside me when we walk with fingers laced.

I know what love smells like, it smells like cigarettes.
It smells like smoke and love-making, the mixture of our sweat.

I know what love sounds like, I hear it when you breathe.
The pitter-patter of your heartbeat, tiny murmurs in your sleep.

People laugh at me and mock me, say that love doesn't exist
I just smile at them and whisper "I know what love is"

I feel wired.
I mean weird.
Wired and weird.  Rearranging the letters is making me dizzy.
My eyes don’t want to focus.  So they don’t.
I let my pupils dilate, relax and unfurl.
Images blur. I struggle to make out the words I type in front of me.
Can’t tell if they’re sensible, can’t figure out if I care.
Maybe I’m tired.
I might be tired, but I’m not sure.
Thought I was before, so I snorted another pill.  And another. And another.
And maybe I felt better but I can’t really remember.
Now I’m not sure if I ever was tired.  Don’t know what I am.
I feel disoriented.  Confused.  Just somehow not right.
I can’t grasp the words I need to describe it.
I just feel weird.
I mean wired.
Wait, which was it again? Can’t remember, not sure.
My head feels like thick mud, or quicksand. Or something.
Or maybe it doesn’t, I’m dizzy again.
What was I saying? Right. Wired and weird.
Will I ever feel normal again?

You make me feel worthless.
An old piece of jewelry once pretty
worn down by time with rust and familiarity  

Replaceable. As if any girl could rub you the right way and
Your gone, a simple game of touch-and-go that
I just can't seem to win.

When did I become so ordinary?
Am I not so shiny copper penny new?
Am I not quite so very interesting, crisply witty remarks ridden?

I look in the mirror and I see beauty.
****. Funny. Perfection.
I see you whispering pretty things into my neck
in the dark quiet of your room, muted tv light dancing over our
flushed skin.

I see you falling asleep smiling at my eyes
touching me So tender, holding me against your body.
My name escaping your teeth clenched so tight by
lust, desire, fire in your veins singing sweet symphonies
that I started.

But then I look again. and I see sub-par
Negligible. Dull. Grotesque.
I see shaky escuses to lead me to the door,
selective hearing that refuse to acknowledge heavy questions
weighing on my shoulders, leaving me so completely alone.
So. Completely. Cold.

Is it possible to be in love with a feeling?
To love not the person, nor object, but
That stirring in your soul you can’t describe?
Like walking on your tip-tap-toes
On a slippery kitchen floor? Or catching
Every perfect snowflake on your eager tongue?
Is it feasible that the object of your affection
Is not an object at all, but the crackling,
Giggling flames spreading warmth deep down
In the bottom of your flopping belly? A feeling
So beautiful, so much more worthy than I.

I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.

I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)

I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.

I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.

I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.

I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”

I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”

I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.

I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.

In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.