Smoke in the air
Ciggarettes on my tongue
The sweet taste of nothingness
The water is warm
But my heart is ice cold
Unsaid words like acid in my throat

She brushes her hair,
Before going to bed.
Takes the mask,
From upon her face.

She lines her pillows,
Perfectly inline.
Resting her head,
And her aching bones.

She thinks about her day,
Falling asleep.
She buries her head,
Deep in her pillows.

Thunderstorms and rain,
Wind and sun.
And she’s still alive,
All of these years later.

And why is she still alive?
Because the universe is her friend.
Her only friend?
Maybe.

for the fifth final time
when i hear that clock chime
i will consider any thought of you a crime
and move
the **** on.

Poetry is often associated with
the romantic,
the candle lit,
the girl with flowers in her hair;

And hardly ever with
the silent and passionate,
the mysterious
and brave.

But while it is probably
true
that those who never love
will never write,

Happily ever after
never made that good
of a story.

my body is a prison
from which there is no escape
and I am both the prisoner
and the warden

ribs are the bars on my cell
and my heart is chained inside
it beats on the bars,
begging to get out

but everyday
it grows weaker,
the beating grows fainter
and everyday
it seems my cell is shrinking
little by little

and Ana holds the key
I'm no longer in control
and she doesn't care
if my heart stops beating
as long as I'm not eating
there is no escape

-sg