I live my life from one encounter to the next;
the way a ****** lives for his next pay check.
I need my fix and every moment in between is nothing,
every moment is empty until I'm beneath you.

It's a hollow love
but you give me something to hold on to,
and in the moments that you're mine
I'm not so alone.

I'm trembling, terrified;
that you'll look down sweetly
into my dark eyes
and hit a dead end.

Love is unattainable; this is no exaggeration.

It is simply the way of my generation to dismiss all sentimental feelings in the name of reputation, but for some poor, idealistic fools still enchanted by the forgotten practice of romantic gesture.

Sometimes I don't recognise
my own frayed edges; that pale
painted-faced girl slung on the
mirror's edge, the shadow I have become.

My blood runs cold
on the floor.

The icy sting shocks me into consciousness,
and the water weighs heavy on my lashes.
I blink away the soft blurred white
and the sink is bleached and
clinical as the water rushes
over it's slick, porcelain skin.
The coolness traces the blood-rush red
of my crippled fingers, and slowly, I crumble.