I wonder how you do it, the callousness and flippancy.
Breaking my heart in one fluid move and crossing over to someone else.
Do you love her? Is she a toy like I was?
A passing fancy for a day, a discarded rag the next.
I wracked my mind in search of a clue, that you loved me a little.
It's hard to watch her cry the same over you.
To roll herself in a ball of agony am comfortable enough to call home.
Beating up herself with thoughts that she wasn't enough,
That somehow she is flawed.
I know you're the broken one,
You try to *** your cracks with broken pieces of us.
It's not enough, it never is.
I shudder to think that others will know this pain.
And yet if you came by and asked me to come back,
I would leap like the flick of a guilty pleasure into your arms.

Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.

sitting here
staring at these boring beige walls
with someone staring back at me
as I try to put my thoughts into words
don't sound stupid
no desperation
no neediness
no attention
being analyzed is an interesting thing
because you can feel the ****
of knowledgable eyes in your brain
so your walls go up
stop staring at me
because help doesn't exist
when you don't want it
and there is no cure
for the monsters in my brain
tearing
ripping
clawing at my psyche
whispering
sweet nothings into my subconscious
bland, practiced words stream out of my mouth
bubbling over with the dull tone of indifference
boredom
and ultimately,
cringe-worthy sadness.
if only you could actually understand
that the monsters are my friends
their darkness inspires me
reminds me of the heaven
found six feet below my own heels
now I'm standing,
with a rehearsed smile on my mask
and a hollow 'thank you'
before I return to the beige walls

It's like the world's in denial
About how I really feel
And I'm so sick of living
For the world's appeal

I can't look at myself
Without feeling regret
All the time that I've wasted
I will never forget

Emotional train wreck
Emotional train wreck

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?