Where has that creative innocent girl gone? She used to be so friendly, so alive, so untroubled...

Is it my fault? Did I scare her away with my corruption and bad habits? The addition of evil and deadly thoughts, did they make her flee? I want her back, I miss her.

This girl perched smugly in my mirror, I cannot identify her face, her laugh or that glint in her eyes. All I feel from her that is familiar is the pain inside.

She too suffers from not being able to speak. She too suffers from being corrupted and she too cannot be saved.

Her heart drops as I smile at her and she smiles back, so fake, so damaged. She tries to laugh, brush off the silvery truth falling rebelliously from the corner of her eye because she mustn't show emotion.

No, she must be strong.

I feel the twist of her stomach as she tries to control herself, stop herself from lurching forward and falling to her knees. All she wants to do is cry but she knows she can't.

All she must do is laugh and smile and be strong for those who need her most. Her friends; her family; her mother.

The slight twitch in the corner of her mouth as she thinks of them reveals to me that they are blameless. She involves herself in those problems to feel loved and wanted, to feel like she can do something valuable.

I can relate to that.

They don't have a clue how she feels but how could they?

She doesn't allow them any knowledge or understanding of her truths. They notice the dark obtrusive circle beneath her eyes but of course she is an 'insomniac.'

Nothing more to it, she doesn't need sleep. That's all.

Forget the fact that sleep means dreaming and dreams reveal the truth. Forget the fact that tears fall for the remainder of the night until dawn breaks and her mask must be replaced to cover the cracks that the night's revelations have made in her perfect complexion.

Others must come first no matter what.

It doesn't matter that she is slowly suffocating beneath her disguise, it will not be removed until the hours of twilight, the time between sleep and waking when she has no boundaries, when she needs no valid reason to cry and scratch and cut.

The girl in the mirror sinks to the floor and I do too so I can remain at her level. She wraps her shaking hands around her knees and rocks like an infant, lips trembling under the pressure of her self control.

"It's OK," I tell her, "you can show yourself to me, I'm here to help!"

She raises her head swiftly and her eyes widen. The tears have stopped and she shakes her head. She had forgotten I was there until I spoke.

"No," she whispers in a semi-rational voice, "I'm fine."

And so she stands and retrieves her mask from the floor, brushing off the dust and polishing it to perfection before returning it to her head.

She throws one last counterfeit smile in my direction and she is gone. Back to her world where she is always smiling, always laughing, always dancing and singing and helping in any way she can.

This is the way it must remain.

butterfly, fly away
infest my heart some other day,
you'll find its just too dead to give
you all the love you need to live.
once upon a time it beat
to another's tune; so sweet
but as it is, the lies decay
and block out all the light of day
'til only pain falls from above
its damaging to fall in love.

so butterfly, onto your grave,
i've bled out all the life you crave.

At first glance it is a beautiful fabric, and craved,
it seems, by many. Delicately made and intricate,
so it should be hard to destroy, surely? After all,
the time and effort, feeling and emotion, put into it,
what a waste it would be to ruin such a fine thing.
It is strong, and it is complex. But it is no longer mine.
And still it stays here as a relic, resting softly on the
skin he used to kiss. One has to wonder in a time
of great desperation and loneliness, whether the
cotton is strong enough, whether I am strong enough,
to tie a noose around my neck. And let it hang.

can you hear that whisper in the wind--
the gentle sigh of a heart as it flies away
weightless? it ceases to be captured by a cage
of bone. that poor girl, innocence resounds
from her ashen face, but oh! how she had to

dig&dig;&dig;&cla;;

and claw, to free that clumsy heart of hers.
did no-one tell her how unattractive
it is to have a gaping hole in her breast?
and all she ever wanted was to be beautiful
and unshackled, for her chains were not
endearing. but that has no importance
now that her heart is floating through a
silver-lined mushroom cloud of love
towards the only one who ever let her
feel herself. and that boy, oh that boy!
he is all the freedom she can wish for.

As a young boy you were warned
not to play with matches.
Fire will always burn your supple skin,
but you never listened.
Adults; they knew nothing of life.
So you struck a spark and watched
as the fire blazed through
all that you had, all that you loved.
And all that you feared
You could not live without.
Its heat left marks on the walls,
and scarred you for life,
as the force of its passion was something
you had never felt before
and hoped to never feel again.
It loved with fervour too strong,
bordering on obsession
as it continued to rage through water
and obstacles in its path,
until nothing remained in its wake.
It left no room for future romance;
tenderness destroyed
because of your silly little mistakes
as a silly little boy.
You were warned not to play with matches.
So in lament you cultivated soil and ash
in hope of love yet growing
in the midst of ruin. And there, in the sun
with only your tears for water
a single sprout of love took root in your heart.

a marionette with a broken heartstring
posed no more of a threat to her than a knife to her throat.
the thought of hanging free, carefree,
freedom,
from the puppeteer tainted her salty tears
streaming mascara down porcelain features. a blank canvas to recreate.

but it didn't matter how far she blew
in the wind, or the sights she saw through her broken, jaded eyes,
the scent of love, lust, longing, lingered
in the crevices
of the very oak she was sculpted from. reborn.
it followed close by, wherever she landed
through the gentle homely aromas of aged whiskey and cheap cigarettes.

he'd sold out;
a ***** to his own sophistic creation.

You were the anomalous speck in the charts
Of his future, the event he never foresaw, or wanted.
A coward to his core,
He fled once you showed him it was possible to bleed,
To have red seep from the stone of your heart
And have it course through your veins; when it dripped
Straight into his eyes, and he saw his true reflection,
That stone heart of his came crashing into yours.

They called it a modern-day Vesuvius,
After all the destruction he left in your wake.
Fragments flew to every corner of creation
Until the largest part of your heart collided
With the brightest star, and pounded it to dust.
The star came hurtling down and landed in the cavern of your chest.
It gave you new life, made you glow from inside out
As though you were alive; the cracks in the pallor of your skin
More palpable now that no piece of that god-forsaken
And bloodied heart of stone remained inside.

Celebration in the aftermath, but you are all too aware
Of what these frail minds cannot comprehend;
They can argue that the light gives life and the light brings joy
And the light is more powerful than any heart could take,
And you listen, as you weep.
Because even though you were betrayed by the stone of your heart
You pray for the dust to gather again,
For even you cannot compare a scintilla to the sun.