i burned myself today
and to say i didn't enjoy my skin sweltering
would be a lie.

it begins to sting.

and i know the ****** is waiting to occur.
watching it char like a dandelion in a bed of roses.
god the intrigue.

it begins to boil.

hot like the unrepentant geraldines
tori amos composes music to.
but alas solace comes when the skin is ripped open.

i partition the awe
and while my skin cells may die,
my soul remains intact
for

now.

i don't know why it happens
but i feel it happening,
and i am tortured.
i'd rather not discuss matters of the heart,
but my mind compels me to do so,
and for that,
i am tortured.
i soak it up in vain,
dancing around the horror of my reflection.
broken and shattered,
i am tortured.
the glossy whispers are muttered
with their sound waves vibrating in my ear,
giving me a pulsing sensation
to lament
silently.
and for that,
i am never the same.

i placed my stress in a blender
to make it easier to swallow,
but all i do is wallow in regret.

it hurts to breath when
no one can see you doing so,
but i won't lay down my arms.

i work desperately for innate satisfaction,
but my utter need for validation
makes my effort drown in vain.

but once again, i live at the bottom of the chain,
yearning for a hand to pull me up,
but pity is easier to swallow than pride.

this self-loathing is too much for me to bare.
i mean i bare everything:
the actions, the words,
the snickers with
an inflamed chest.
and the struggle cannot be conquered;
i am no soldier, no fighter - subhuman.
i struggle for a sense of purpose
like an infected toilet brush
or maybe a half-chewed pencil eraser. quality beats quantity
but i cannot quantify how many tears i have shed
or the glass-stained memories
that leave ****** scratches on mind.
all along there was no end to this journey,
but shattered dreams paint a more vivid picture
than happiness ever could.

i beg the shadow to lift the darkness from the corner
but it gazes at me with such condescension.
it then begins to fantasize about my dreams.
it can remember things i can't
and it can haunt me from a distance -
watching, lurking,
breathing.
but i am the dull flame
that will extinguish its desire.

adulthood will surface
and as I awkwardly ***** my childhood,
i fear independence.

rushing to the non-relinquished title of happiness,
we turn with such blind faith at reality
for that once chance of obtaining a smile
or maybe even a grin that is involuntary.
but joyful stories are myths and glee is a lie
because how can anyone move those mouth muscles
with such abject sadness in the world.
i try to eliminate my feelings because feelings are feelings
and i'd rather not feel than feel bad
but no one wants to here a sob story.
i softly add fervor to my daily life for it to be destroyed
but valiantly i survive the day
but unfortunate my pillow won't -
drowning in the saltiness that emits from my eyes.
but it'll get better, that's what they always say.
but what if doesn't? should i be forced to drown in the misery
like my pillow or will i learn to not succumb to my feelings
and triumph over the cold air running through my hair.
no.
they will win.
they have won.
but i will come back.
higher than ever.
dancing on the empire state building because nothing will
consume me except my nerves.
because i am valiant.
not.

you pull on my heartstrings,
plucking with a sensational force,
encroaching my temple.
you shake with such a sensibility,
prancing across the barren trench
of loneliness.
tiny toenails scratch the surface of the skin,
scarring my edifice,
emasculating my core.
but language has power.
it swarms,
creating the metamorphosis of a human -
from a body
to a living creature.

aching
with undue envy,
i smile.
and every muscle that is forced out of place
takes its anger out on my frowns.
standing over my bed,
i lie.
i deceive.
i offer no explanation,
and my teeth chatter
from the coldness of others.
but,
it's okay.
'cause i'm ostensibly happy.

it kindles with a passion
only met by her deep hatred for love.
it blossoms
like a girl losing her virginity
by force.
the pedals are silky,
releasing their insides on your outsides.
the sidewalk blooms with rocks and cracks
and so does her image of herself.
the desert air is as dry as her personality,
but the indian blood
flows more heavily
than it does from the cuts on her arm.
but she fakes it.
we fake it.
her spin graces the stage
in a frenzied, intricate pattern.
she closes her eyes.
counts to three.
till time loses itself on her body.

disproportionality.
the heart does not match the mind.
minding.
mindful.
mindless.
i've gone mad trying to feel
what i am supposed to feel.
feelings.
feeling.
fearless.

she broke it off
because he couldn't
h
  a
     n
        g.

twinkle twinkle little star.
the girl floats with such grace across her bedroom floor.
she is a fairy, or maybe she's a bird.
dancing with leisure, the faults in her eyes stand strong.
how i wonder what you are!
she doesn't understand why her passion
doesn't make her happy anymore.
she ties her hair in a bun,
gliding from her comfort zone only to meet disapproval.
up above the world so high.
and the only way she thinks she can feel is to get high,
so high where there's no oxygen
and the atmosphere knocks her out cold -
so she doesn't have to feel
lonely.
like a diamond in the sky.
there are no diamonds in the sky.
only tears of despair and desperation and
grief.
twinkle twinkle little star.
her arm hangs above her head.
and the numbness dulls the pain of the cuts,
scattered across her appendage.
how i wonder what you are.*
"i am a fairy" she says - head half-cocked,
happiness fully gone.

I would liken you to a stab wound,
the way you've caused me so much pain -
but I must admit I provided the knife.

The dust falls at night,
scratching the surface of light -
destroying the plight.

Shaking all loveless,
diving into the love pit,
it all falls to dust.

Dance in the corner,
smiling without purpose,
the tears ache with pain.

to that one girl over there*

chock-full of intimacy,
i can't stop looking at the wrinkles in your hair
and the way they caress the curvature of your ears.
every smile drives me deeper into insanity,
and as your upper intersects with your lower,
i heave a sigh of pain.
waltz there, waltz here - your every move is like a dance
God Almighty choreographed himself.
My soul is like a bird - fluttering to the unknown,
but every season I come back for you.
your thighs were sculpted my Michelangelo,
your voice was crafted by Ella Fitzgerald,
your grace was gifted by your parents,
and my love burns hotter than the passion i have for you.

The mirrored shattered into pieces
and as she tried to put it back together,
her reflection catches her attention.
Aching with anger,
she becomes pregnant with rage
and begins to step on those pieces.
As the blood began to flow from her foot,
it also began to flow to her face.
She doesn't know why she's angry -
but then she remembers.
*How can a person remain
just as tattered as this mirror?

my tan skin is only the reflection
of the dark I have in my heart.

endlessly searching
for my imaginary other half.

play that saxophone.
crash those cymbals
and shake the tambourine.

fall into the trap.
wrap yourself inside of your insanity
and fall into the ditch of despair.

taste the moving colors
and those stifled emotions.
let loose and make your engine roar.

twist your hips
into a spiral.
don't recover from the spirit dancing inside of you.

Slumping in her wooden chair,
she began to become upset.
Tying her blonde strands into a bun
(far from messy),
she began to bite on the eraser tip,
tasting the frustration in every nibble.
And when a tear fell into the margin,
she panicked
(and silently)
balled up the paper,
and threw it against the wall.
She soon became relieved of that stress,
and when she unraveled the delicate lined-paper,
the tears ran dry.
Reading the unreadable words,
she muttered what she had been longing to hear:
"Time to wake up."

At night,
I touch myself.
(No, not like that.)
I touch myself all over
to know that I am still there.
It's strange.
My mind takes me elsewhere,
yet my body is still here.

touch.

touch me like you're a snake.
wrap your velvet fingers across my velcro exterior,
then puncture my interior with your deadly lust.

touch me like you're a dog.
place your paw inside mine
and lick the sorrow off of my face.

touch me like a cat.
nudge your face against mine,
and when i stroke your exotic fur,
i want to hear you purr.

touch me like a tiger.
bombard me with your hate
and attack me with all of your pain.

touch me like a shark.
eye me from across the sea,
and when i least expect it,
you will sweep me off of my feet.

and touch me like a human.
you can have all of me
as long as i can have your heart.

words hurt.
have you ever been stabbed by an adjective
or ripped up inside by a verb?
how about those adverbs that modify
the emptiness we all feel inside?

words are a living creature.
lurking over the enjambment of the letters,
terrorizing those who hear them.
and yet;
we still use them.
pushing us over the edge
as they're muttered by those who
are not worthy of their power.
of their
grace.

but nouns hurt the worst.
razor blades and lemon juice
are like an ant to a human
compared to nouns.
and the only way we can combat
these fierce enemies
is to not listen.
but how can i cover my ears from
something i adore?

and how can i cover my ears
to protect myself from words when
i need them?
i need them more than Tina needed Ike
more than Lindsay Lohan needs coke
more than Beyonce needs Jay
more than Lucifer needs God to stay alive.
And how can I shield myself from words
when all I want to do
is hear the phrase
"everything is going to be okay."

Let's go on a trip.
Maybe we could see the world together?
And when I see you face,
I cry because I know I am not worthy of
your ethereal beauty; and then your smell.
Oh, your smell.
It's like a collision of the sun and the moon
produced 100 red roses, radiating a smell so pungent
that even the Lord Almighty is intimidated to inhale.
Love.

Incensed by your beauty.
Enraged by your body.
Inflamed by the way you make me feel.
Valuable.
As a the smoke of the train encapsulates my body,
and takes away my breath,
your voice is the only thing I think about.
You ingrain hope into this slender body
and give me the will to go on.

I'm so sorry I love you so much.
I'm so sorry I feel this way about you.
I'm so sorry that I worship you in secret;
You mustn't know how I feel.
And as I type these words into the computer,
and your life continues to go on,
Just take this advice;
Don't ever change what God has given you.
He has blessed your body with innumerable  sinusoidal curves
that gently compliment that warm, tear-induced smile.
He's blessed you with those thighs,
Lawd! (Oh how I want to integrate those thighs.)
But you're more than that.
No *** object of my amusement,
but a Goddess that is worth constant praise
and a Goddess who must not know how
I really feel.

paper hurts the same
way life hurts:
strip all of the dense air away
as the margins of our memories collide
with the graphite of our instrument of pain.
words.
shelter us with your actions
and as the mind wants to get foggy
so do the memories of that everlasting change.
thoughts are nothing but the imagination,
uncontrollable because let's be real:
reality *****.
and as the words begin to flow
so do those thoughts.
they appear.
it rumbles my consciousness and
stirs those repressed feelings.
the unspeakable.
the hatred.
the sorrow.
the love.
and I just lament my feelings into the paper
because I know the pencil won't hurt me.
and i keep on writing and writing and writing
till the rush of death sweeps over me
and Lord knows
I just want it to end.
So I write.
I write some more.
And as my hand because just as numb as my
heart,
I know it's over.