When we were 10, we laughed loudly at the back of the room. Teeth buck, and eyes shut, shoelaces untied and knees untouched. I looked at my own reflection only to see how red the sun had turned me, I chuckled at the peeling, though it hurts, I knew there was more for me to see. There was no need for rouge- just rough. My best friend looked at her own reflection only to see how badly she had scraped the bend of her knee. Ugly was not in our dictionary, but neither was pretty. In unkempt braids, hair bouncing as we chased the pink butterflies we did not intend to mimic. We knew these kinds of wounds would fade. We didn’t realise ugly was supposed to bring more hurt to feel, when it came from girls who thought pretty was supposed to heal. And still, I touch the burns from the steam iron and the far-too-many cicatrices from the concrete. I remember the desire and the bittersweet, my body made a map for the universe to mark out where I’ve been. In my sleep I run through the wild wheat a thousand times over, but I flinch at the idea of female bathrooms and looking past the landmarks and monuments to see dirt roads. And still, we remained burnt, we remained scraped, we remained unkempt.

The eyes are a pair of globular organs of sight in the head of humans and vertebrate animals
Or are the eyes the window to the conscious soul?
They call me the Devil’s Advocate
Traditionally on the left side of your shoulder, purring that dead angels lie too
The lost pulse has been cause to abacinate
The light is blinding but you descry right through its laments, where the fleeting hope sings a tune that quavers as classical
The light is blinding but so is the crepuscular, encapsulated in a vessel of defeatism, powerless to shift my sole.
Your shut asymmetrical globes are created boundless by all existing matter that make them a home.

A Molotov cocktail in the shape of a hollow *****, reminiscent of wartimes and tearing without the gas
I choke on the smoke rings of the lit wick and I’m reminded that I hate going in circles and around
But they are also vessels of protection, a place for kumbaya’s around the fire where time is used to back-track
The deepest longings and recollection in my Purple Heart cannot be explained by how it beats 115,000 times each day
To hell with the sorry excuses and fleeting ideas of the Beaujolais

The soul is the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.
Let your spirit descend into you again, fill your body like the dripping of Adam’s Ale from broken pipes
Yes, they are cracked, but your chest is not a bird’s nest in December
They are reminiscent of, but are not the promises your teenage self-made to your mother, saying, “I’ll be home by eight”.
Press your hands to the aviary your beating heart has been trying to escape, touch it softly, and this will be the first time in years you've been kind to the keeper of the grey
Glaze into the looking glass and hold your fists back, let go of the sharpness of your words and risk forgetting yourself
End the match that pinpricked the flame of hatred, and bleed out the blue and black of yesterday.  

They call me the Devil’s Advocate,
You hang from the trees, but I don’t believe in gravity.

The beginning of the end,
my dearest friend,
how can I explain
that which I cannot comprehend?

These sensations calling themselves out,
Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch.
They all conspire against me,
to make me want too much.

All the while I lay in darkness
painting a coat of dream upon dream,
I cry and scream against myself,
searching for a light at the seam.

Its all a reflection, a mirage
the flickering of lights so blue,
but the closer I bring my hands
I lose the space between me and you.

We are all but an extended reaction
No raw meaning, just sign upon sign.
And our drawings we desperately analyze,
circles we call space and lines we call time.

I object to the objective,
I am desperately trying to see
How to be blind of sight,
and become reality.

Deepest struggle in the morning
Everyday, I feel the weights tighten around my ankles
Plum coloured bruising on my knees, from all the times I shout for help
Productivity declines
Rest assured, I am trying my best
Even though it looks like I’m giving in
Someday, I’ll hold my head up again
Someday, you will see how hard it was for me
In reality, I would never wish this upon anyone else
Only hoping for another reason for living
Never seeing one appear

tore myself in two
put on a show for you
the taste of your lips
i hunger for one more kiss
a table for two
only one thing left to do,
you.
we're just a bunch of nobodies
partnership of two wannabes
just a great hyperbole
pathetic in actuality
we’re going no where
we’re bound to tear
i love the recklessness of it all
and fall when you call me your baby doll
id gladly throw myself off a cliff for you
perhaps its time to bid my adieus
but wheres the fun in saying my goodbyes
when i could stay, and let you multiply my butterflies
take from me until i can no longer give
until i forget how to live
forget how to live independently
but i need not worry, you promised me an eternity
and so i trust you with my everything
and you will forever be my king
of this soul, of this body
you’re my new hobby
and perhaps it is unhealthy,
but you’re the only one who loves me correctly
and i could care less
so ill stress, obsess, caress
until there is nothing left of us
just a ceramic jar of ash and dust
and our fates and fingers are intertwined
and you’re confined, all and only mine.