I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.

I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.

This is killing me.
You are killing me.
You sick little ****.
I'm not going to answer your calls.
It is making me feel like I'm in a baracade.
And you have opened fire.
You're trying to luer me out
With ****** voicemails
"Baby I wanna *******".
"I love it when you scream no".
"Make me a sandwhich doll face".
"Let me ******* to death".
I will rip out my own heart before I answer.
Before I leave my bunker.
******* you sadist pig.

I've been stuck reading a deranged book
Where twelve year olds are *****,
And a small child is more philisophical than my professor.
It makes me want to become "Manda and the Giant Peach".
But instead I grab a steak knife and a peach from the fridge.
I listen to the rain on the tin roof.
It is a deafining constant.
It's the soundtrack to infinity.
Every other time you blink
You're naked in a bathtub in a mental institution,
With some lady named Mrs. White
Looking down at you as you throw a fit.
I throw good fits.
I hate to blink back to my peach and my knife and my book.
I might as well just throw another fit
And throw the peach away.
Oh Mrs. White?

Beautiful
Is a colorless flower
If I am to use it
Describing you
The wordsmiths
Must work well
Into the night
Smithing away
Until morning light
To find a word
Suiting your definition

Unearthing
Is a waterless brook
If used to convey the look
Radiating from your enchanting eyes
The same that left my heart wounded today
When you used them to drill to the core of me
No doubt making a profound discovery

Love*
Is overused and clichéd to ruin
Much too pedestrian to capture what you found
When drilling deep into my underground
Without a sound it happened
That word we can’t use
Due to its short and burnt up fuse
Turned on its light this afternoon
And in a magic moment we both knew

That beautiful, unearthing, love
Built a bridge between us
Founded in truth
Always open and fireproof

Today around 2 o’clock