The ghost
Empty girl
A spectator of greater events ( our narrator. Protagonist)

What it is to die inside but to keep breathing. It's like watching life but only catching the  end of all things; the greatest romances but with every suitor you become so aware of the approaching end. You watch for it, bite your nails over it, rip your cuticles to shred the golden air you breathed only days ago, filling it with noxious silence and this oppressive somnalence;
And hell
to return to You, the real you, feels like clawing your way out of a well
You can't recognize your hands
These pinched phalanges are cracked with age lines but you are so **** young

Your hands are the hands of another.

The very worst of demons are the ones that can't be destroyed because they are a part of you

Cold is the shoulder wrapped in narcissistic delight -
The wanton
The diligent
The emptiness abides
But for iceburgs calving in the asiatic sea
Do they feel the tremor of the broken shard released
Can the blueblack glass reveal the depths of the mislaid man or
The woman -
Never given the chance to Be
It is too much to consider broken pieces should be saved,
Hidden for much later, when the sea will freeze again
Can he open to the touch
Can she build from what remains
We throw out the scattered remnants like the iceburg melting into sand
But consider the sand:
Remnants too, of shells and coral of bones and buildings fallen, broken, discarded
yet
Washing up on land
to build a new shore.

I can feel you losing interest
I can feel you leaving
or, at least,
wanting to

I know I'm hard to deal with
I know I get so sad that everything hurts
I know I get so sad that I hurt everyone
but I swear I love you

But I understand if you need to go
because there's someone out there
who's going to treat you exactly how you should be
someone who doesn't get sad
and push you away
someone who can handle the world
and doesn't think about leaving constantly

I understand if you don't love me anymore
I don't either

-e.w.

In Carson you took my hand as we crossed the whitecapped river - cold water cramping toes, we minced our way along algaed rocks like cats tiptoeing on ice
But in Tillamook we hunted Dungeoness crab and I roared for you
Did you hear?
We were hunting our kin - and I wondered if this could be sacrilege to the Cancers, perhaps not
But I heard the quiet "Thankyou," given to each one as you lowered them into the ***, the reverence in your voice soothed me like the pounding of the Pacific arm along that beach - my own golden shore -
I thought I had lost it you see -
Hidden in the dunes we consumed the flesh of the ***** and sat down to watch the sun melt into the blue
I wanted to say thank you too
But the words escaped me like your bandanna flying out from the truck
Like those ***** in the bay below who felt us tugging at the lines and crawled out of the ascending baskets, escaping death from our mouths
I like to think that we are them as well
Because we both run from comfortable prisons, the pillow that cradles the head but entraps the heart.

His eye is on the sparrow. I watch them too; from my porch I can see the golden feathers lit by sunrise rays. I counted myself among them, it seemed much simpler that way. Didn't intend to build a nest there, to stay, but the days grow short and my safe harbor is miles and miles away. My mother asked me not to cut my hair, her golden headed daughter; is pride wrapped up in locks? I will lose it all anyway, every yellow strand. Maybe the sparrows will come to use it, weaving homes, their own safe harbors. There is good in that at least - I wondered a long while if it was possible - but I like to think it's true. His eye is on the sparrow
I watch them too.

Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.

so cool.

demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage

sleepover
sleepless

starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.

pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity

rotten thing.

you ain't the boss of me

paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap

heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.

oh how special.

yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.

these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.


drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!