you're the boiling black
coffee that cools my burnt tongue
in the morning light--

This purple silk is the colour of love, but a symbol of love I am not.
It is not love they see as I stroll along the street,
My waist cinched and gilded with poor man’s gold
(God forbid a woman should have anything to herself).
They think the shadows of their top hats hide their gaze
But I can feel their perverse eyes skimming my form. Hypocrites.  

We’re forever forced to dress in a way that is pleasing
And overtly obvious to their unclothing, naked eyes;
Liberating, perhaps, if we were granted the freedom to act in accordance
With how the silk makes us feel as it caresses our skin
With how the stiffness feels against the flesh of our chests
With how the weight of our skirts make us long for a tender touch.

I have to wonder if Harriet Mill sits equally adorned and ogled
As she writes of our enfranchisement, if John watches her work
In the dresses he bought to intensify her shape,
Before asking her precisely where she wants to be touched
Because he knows she deserves to demonstrate what she is capable of.
They claim that might is their right,
But they know nothing of the strength it takes to resist these carnal pleasures.
Observe my corseted form, but let me assure you,
This was not the kind of bone I wanted digging into me tonight.

i tried (and failed) to **** the butterflies again last night;
i sliced at their wings
burnt out their eyes with my cigarettes
drowned them in whiskey *****
and tears
and they still managed to escape
but in a way i don't mind.
they think they're free
but now no-one will find them beautiful.

i wish that i could nail the stars
to your eyes
burn away your retinas
so you never see the beauty
of another's smile
or the lie in mine.

it won't matter in the end
how brightly your light shines
or how deep into my heart it delves.
it'll never be enough
to extinguish my darkness
so i'm afraid my darkness will extinguish us.

what i fear is that you're far too infatuated
with the adventures and the ***
and the newness of it all
to see how little of your time i'm really worth.
yes, there is an abundance of flesh
to grab and kiss and ****
and it's true that i writhe and ******
and beg for you to choke me
so you're aware that there is sadness
beneath this mountain of flesh
skin and scars i laughingly call my body
but i think that you're too blinded
by the manic side of my depression
to see how dark my world is becoming.

when I was younger
I just wanted to be Alice
so that when I fell down a hole
there would at least be a purpose,
an adventure
and a story to tell.

I would be famous,
befriend the weird and wonderful
& finally belong.

but I got older
acquainted with the real world
and found myself
in a very different hole;
there is no white rabbit
to tell me where to go
and the monster in my head
will not be slain so simply
and my tears don't allow me
to simply float away.

but the biggest disappointment
(I blame growing up and finding love
and losing hope)
is that there is no end
to this hole of mine.

and I'm falling
& falling
&& falling.

and I'm afraid it's too late
to rewrite my ending.