I'm not here tonight, I've left my body.
Someone else is here.
Making me do all these horrible things.
Why can't I just say goodbye?
I am not me, and I don't think I'll ever be.
When I look into the mirror all I see are the scars, and my empty eyes.
I don't see me, I'm gone.
I just want the war inside to cease, I want my arguing subconscious to hush.
I want every word to be unsaid, and every sound unheard.
Then I'd be me, then I'd be innocent.
Then I'd be peaceful and joyful.
But that isn't going to happen and I need to be strong.
I need to **** in the air, even if it is sharp like the blades.
Even if it hurts, even if I don't want the oxygen to seep into my blood and keep my heart beating.
I need to go on, because I will get better.
And the me I once was is inside somewhere, buried deep under all the skin and bones.
Behind all the dark thoughts, and behind my teary eyes.
Soon I will be me, and soon I'll look into your eyes.
And then I believe that everything will be well.
I will not be fighting a war within myself any longer.
I will not be bleeding blood, or burning skin.
I am not that, and I will leave it behind.
I will leave all the pitch black thoughts, defacing words, and ripping skin behind me.
And I will bury it 10 feet under, and plant the prettiest flowers over it.
So maybe they will become something better someday.
Maybe they will find their way back to me unchanged, but that's okay.
Because I'm strong and I will fight them harder, and bury them deeper.
And maybe even hurt them like they hurt me, but you know what they say.
Hurting doesn't really take the hurt away.

my fingers tremble and
my heart stutters and
my mind wonders and
my eyes question and  
I don't exactly know you and
I don't exactly know why,





but you make me nervous

I always did let the
Pretty girls get the
Best of me.

i don't write in a journal anymore.
you are my journal.
i speak my thoughts aloud to you,
like a confession.

i tell you all my sad thoughts,
my dying wishes,
my hopes,
and my dreams.
you don't speak in return.
you just hold my hand quietly next to me.

silently we sit in my sins,
pooling to the ground like blood from an open wound.

I was in love with anatomy
the symmetry of my body
poised for flight,
the heights it would take
over parents, lovers, a keen
riding over truth and detail.
I thought growing up would be
this rising from everything
old and earthly,
not these faltering steps out the door
every day, then back again.

I talked to an old man once
as I was riding on the bus.

Had a tendency to ramble,
and always had the urge to cuss.

He said he had a theory,
and his whole life he had spent.

On how Death was a women,
and this is how it went.

Death has to be a women
cause only she could be so cold.

Dressed in all black,
and always coming for your soul.

A scythe she holds in one hand,
an hour glass in the other.

She gets pleasure from her name,
and not from any other.

She keeps her bones polished nice,
and her hair free of spiders.

She knows something about everyone,
and loves to be desired.  

He said she had a husband once,
but he tried to run off when she got sick.

So before he left she killed him,
his mistress, and his brother just for kicks.

He said he could see at one point
how beautiful she had to be,
but all that's left was skull, and flesh,
anger and deformity.

So I laughed and said oh
so you've seen her before.

He said yeah can't you,
look up she's standing by the door.