And it seems I will only see your face behind glass
As you turn yourself away from my beckoning
Muted like a songbird with a gouged throat and
Broken wings - my hands press against the wall and
I envision the last time we touched

The shackles on my ankles feel heavier as
I imagine eclipsing the space between our bodies
The bruised, maroon stripes across my back
Swell like a prisoner's garb and bright blood
Spills from my mouth; the color of your favorite wine

I know now the world has no room for treachery and
I can feel the temptations march beneath my feet
As I fall to my knees with a beseeching scream
The gods wrap their warm fingers around my limbs
Dissolving me back into the mother-earth where
One day, I will meld with you again

it'll settle down before long.
in the left half-plane our
distorted polarities glisten and,
naturally,
all mechanisms leak:
the house gets colder,
the radio becomes static,
we
consistently feel different.

how'd daylight get so aphasic?
where were we when words
struck gold, moved out,
found a better life?

and all the while
the transfer function of our insides
slunk so out of sync;
i guess i'm kind of sorry.
'cause
the last transient to fade
would be you,
but,
you know
how unsigned possibilities,
cupped in our palms,
seep out, like

i leave the windows open
all night long.

I put my retainer in; only hoping it would straighten things out. Good luck, love. You're too complicated to be set straight. You're not concrete. You're distant. You live your life like you have headphones in, watching everything without the proper sounds; you listen with your own soundtrack. This fake silence speaks to you. It's your only safety net. It's the only way you feel truly alive and normal. Although you try and avoid normalcy as much as it's humanly possible… Although I find it quite ironic that I used the word "Humanly" because you don't strike me as human at all. You're not like other people.

You actually believe that you need others more than they need you. You search for affection, for stability, for acceptance. You're just a shell of the girl you used to be; troubled and messed up and lost in this sadistic world. You don't know what to do with yourself. What is there even to do with a girl like you? Do you know that you block people off? You don't tell anyone anything sweetie. You just keep to yourself, hide everything away in a little box in that extravagant but strangely complicated mind of yours. No wonder you thirst for affection so much, no wonder you don't have any.

But what I don't get is that you sit there and think about how much you want to talk to people and speak your mind but you don't. You're too afraid of being scrutinized even more than you already are. Because you can't take that you're even stereotyped and scrutinized in the first place. You can't stand that. So you believe it's better to be miserable in your own mind rather than publicizing it all over the place. You'd rather keep it to yourself and wear a mask that says, "There's nothing wrong with me, I have every reason to be happy, and I'm just tired." When the truth is, you believe you have no reason to be happy, there's too much wrong with you to even try to deal with and fix, and you're more than tired, you're exhausted.

"Why is life like this?" You ask yourself over and over again. Always searching and searching for answers but only finding more and more questions. You're always left unanswered; you feel worthless, forgotten. You believe that you're just in everyone's way, that everyone would be better off if you just didn't exist. And you constantly find yourself wishing something horrible would happen to you just so you can have a reasonable and legitimate excuse to be so depressed. So you wouldn't have to wear that **** mask of yours anymore. If people only knew.  

But because of who you are, you push people away. And you allow them to get to you and hurt you. But do you realize that it is your fault for all of this? It's always your fault. You're unstable and prone to trouble and terribly unlucky. You're not fixable; you're just not good enough.

People don't realize the type of person you are. You come off as ungrateful and spoiled and angry and so many things that you're not. You just cover everything up with these negative behaviors and emotions. Which makes no sense, but I know you can't help it. Your eyes don't need all the sadness they have seen. You are a good person; at least you try to be. You're humble and understanding. You feel so much for others and you have the ability to understand them so well. You do things for others that you know they would never do for you. You find yourself criticizing only you, judging no one but yourself.

But your own expectations for yourself are impossible to live up to and you don't realize that. You don't believe in yourself... it's a wonder you have the capacity to believe in others. But it doesn't surprise me that you find it so hard to let yourself fully love other people. You don't love yourself. That's your issue. You can show love for others and be loving towards them but you can never get to the point where you can fully love someone. And you wonder why. It's because you don't love yourself. You like to convince yourself that if you write and think beautiful thoughts than everyone will love you. Too bad no one knows you write and think. And too bad you don't think any of it is beautiful either.

You're just paranoid. You have this weird fear of growing old. You're not afraid to die, you're afraid to grow old. Lose your most prized possession-your mind. Maybe that's why you're so reckless and don't care about anything you do or anything anyone else does. You might as well die young rather than waste the rest of your life being miserable and unhappy. I mean life just gets boring after you're forced to grow up. You lose your freedom.

But don't ask me, I don't know anything.

And the stars on this blood red night;
Wisps of light dancing like
Skeletal ballerinas, crimson eyed.
Black blood stained their teeth
And I held onto my bed sheets
As they descended upon me.
Satanic starlight and ebon hallucinations,
My covers served no refuge.
No refuge.

They came in waves, and I was
Almost falling into these planes of darkness
Dropped upon me by demonic dancing girls,
Like panes of glass falling from a cargo jet.
Yet I smiled.
I was sm**iling

Tracing the path to higher consciousness
with trembling toes and withering eyes.
beyond the picket fence I saw the
very essence of human suffering.

An abyss of deceit and I was just staring.
within arms reach but something stopped me
from lending myself to an almost hopeless cause.
it was my skin, my flesh.
and boy had it been some time;
the rigidity of bone holding my arms in place.
But as I reached towards these dying people
my skin just couldn't reach.

So I reverted back to my ethereal self
continuing this journey,
trying to blur the overwhelming of the cries around me.
but my intentions are not so selfish as they seem;
how could I spread peace to others
without having found my own?

I fall in love with words.

Words written by a pen
or a pencil
or by fingertips on frosted glass.

The soft curve of an 'a' is
Almost as enticing as naked hips.
The smell of ink on aged paper
Is almost as ****** as a
Hard body in my sheets.

Spoken words could never be
As alluring as the ones that
Have been whispered into a heart
By a spread of fingers on skin.

Give me your words and I'll
Give you my heart.

Write them down for me.