There is a house that sits high on a hill, downtown
Shrubbery and vines are the open arms that welcome anyone who passes
And when they do, they're always sent away with cold bones and blood
A fitting departure package

No one knows exactly what went on in that house
Tales of violence, ****, lies and unholy rituals plague the stories
But there is no record, no way of knowing for sure
A crimson question-mark

Forever, it seems, the house will sit ominously on that hill
Eyes and ears, always curious, will direct themselves to it
Curiousity kills, so they say, but one day someone will be brave enough
A stupid someone

When that poor soul decides they're ready to step inside
After years or so of morbid fascination and research that amounts to seemingly nothing
They will open the door and close it behind them
And no one will ever see them again

i wish with all my heart that

you will never know the word
                                                    fat

that you will never know the sting of insecurity like sunburn on your skin
that you will never feel the need to be anymore than you already
are
because you will be as brilliant as all of the constellations spun into one

i
wish with all my heart that
you will never meet the same boys your mother did

that you will never feel the hot-sloshing cocktail of heartbreak, guilt, and *****
in your stomach.
that
you will never know the stain of a broken society
or the fear of a failing planet

that you will never feel the same bitter hate that your mother does
and that instead of fire you will breathe
peace, but your words will scorch those who dare hurt you
because your mother is too full of fire for you to be completely free of it.

I am not a diamond
I am not glistening, not desired by many.
But I do think I might be coal
Seen as useful by some
*****, disgusting, polluting by others
And if you put me underground
The weight of the earth pressing in on me from all sides
Just maybe I could be something pretty, wanted.

Maybe I'm like black coffee
An acquired taste, not enjoyed by many
One even myself cannot stomach.
(What does that say about me?)
And I desperately fill myself with words and pictures
Soft and beautiful like gossamer and lace
All of the things I am not
In hopes that I will be sweet enough to drink.

Perhaps I'm a portrait, all broken brush strokes
And darkened shades of pthalos
And the voice drifting past say how beautiful it is
And how they can't wait to see it when it's done.
But it's already finished
They simply don't like to believe something that dark and eerie and broken
Is not a work in progress.

I guess this is just my fate
to be surrounded by people waiting for me to become something more than I am
Something less dark and broken
Something more delicate and beautiful
Something sweeter.
But they'll all leave in time
When they realize this is actually who I am
And that I'm not unfinished.