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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.