Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the *****, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a ***** in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.

She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-****, ****-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.

But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.

She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the ******* the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.

A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A ***** maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that ***** in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.

Use this never ending lightning and bring your bride to life.

The source of my sorrow
Has been resurrected
Along with the memories I had buried.
Everything before you was buried,
But the burn of whiskey
Has robbed every grave I created;
Truths brought back by the
Numbness of my lips and
Willingness of my neighbors ears.

Senses explode, WWII,
Nuclear warfare on this expanse of bare
Skin supposed to be closed at my age separates,
I let the saltwater seep into this,
Slick. Time passes, hardly passing,
But, oh, how well we move.  Dance
Around our icy fire, escape from the pain
Constantly eating, feeding.
We are a buffet of things to harm
Come for another plate, fate.
Do us more harm? No. We will not stand, we can't
When we are in this state of mind. We have no state of mind,
Lust driven creatures, but we can speak. Command, tell me what
You want. You want a simple thing, but so complex.
And I want it, too, but simpler for me. A simple thing, unless thought of.
Believed in, felt deeply in ways not physical.
Arching and deepening, we will not be broken down by a measly
War outside of our windows.
Fire scorching the wooden figures, but we are sheltered by stone.
We have escaped and we are left with a heavy air and the smell
Only we can concoct. Nonexistent fabric leaving traces on my skin and yours, indent.
And your eyes are all I see, even in the dark. I know their color by heart, greenbluegrey-everchanging. But I can figure it out.
Your pupils dilate you know. You look at me and I see them. You seem drugged, dear.
Let me feed your addiction. There are many nuclear weapons left, buried
Throughout the world. We can travel and love,
Never ending.

Sadness follows me like a lost puppy,
Looming and pattering at my feel like rain.
Whining like a smoke detector
When a child makes a mistake.
I inspire depression.
An earthquake.
I step in fairy-like
Movements, trying to be quiet
Like a woman should be.
Destruction ripples in my wake.
I am a bulldozer crashing a funeral,
Demolishing the memories we mourn.

Previous commemorative
                          memorials of positivity
     drown in radioactive slime.
    
   Disperse chi like flooding water
                              Contaminated, laminated with oily tears.

*"How is pain controlled?

Every lie, every single one, is in some way a truth.
Every truth, every single one, is in some way a lie.

Think about it.

Karma is a *****.
You heard the saying so many times.
What goes around comes around.
The golden rule.
Whatever.

Karma is a *****.
But not to the people who deserve it.
The people who were the nice ones,
Who have  been suffocated;
Their payment is long overdue.
I know a lot of people, including myself,
That have struggled to be kind for so long.
They have completely possessed the person
They once were.


Lately I've been a *****.
Please forgive me.

Ive tried for so long.
And I can not deal with this anymore.
I feel the need to rebel.
Because it is something to do.

You would do it to.
And most likely have
If you have been as caged in
As I was.

Draw the forces of old and wise peers
From the light of the blood moon.

A lunar eclipse and color radiates
In these consecutive nights.

Energy calls and empowers the bodies
Who call it. The Goddess gives what the
Moon sells to her.

I thought to myself,
"I will think about my life."
Love was a cliche.

Vivid cultures dancing
like jellybeans in a frying pan.
Pop like a violin
flow with the rhythm of the sandstorm.
Spinach leaves sway in the depths of the ocean
like worms
hooked through one of its many stomachs
filled with plastic bottles.
****** honey bombs flavour
the ink that spills across
the landscapes.

Karma is a *****.
You heard the saying so many times.
What goes around comes around.
The golden rule.
Whatever.

Karma is a *****.
But not to the people who deserve it.
The people who were the nice ones,
Who have  been suffocated;
Their payment is long overdue.
I know a lot of people, including myself,
That have struggled to be kind for so long.
They have completely possessed the person
They once were.


Lately I've been a *****.
Please forgive me.

Ive tried for so long.
And I can not deal with this anymore.
I feel the need to rebel.
Because it is something to do.

You would do it to.
And most likely have
If you have been as caged in
As I was.

Trouble, love...
You drown me in
Quick
Beats;
Palpitations of my
Red *****.
My waters run for you.

Tied with
Ribbons of
Silk,
I shout proclamations
To the clouds who
Threaten to rain on us.

When the spit leaves his mouth like acid,
Speckles my face with scars and tears,
Insults are last place in my minds marathon.

The self depreciation is a serrated knife,
Plucking at the strings in my chest.
And with each snap, I am closer to collapsing.

A white noise in your throat

The palpitations drop and boil
Your stomach inside itself.

The motors and gears in your limbs
Rust and stick like someone spat
Their chewed gum into them.

Tears freeze in their place and
The burn sets in.

Save us.

Cut me open, cover yourself in a blanket of skin.
It won't make I difference. I don't inhabit it anyway.
It is a shell.
It is a lifeless thing.
It is not me. It makes no decisions.

Split the differences in your own mind and do anything you wish.
Take away every doubt.
Leave it on the edge of a cliff. The rain will wash it down our throats.
A spoonful of sugar.
It is laced. Silk laces, pretty underthings ruined.
They were taken off.
Too many flowers to water with the fluids running from open wounds.

They will not grow. They are made of the plastic from leftover
Glass from a broken window. Portal to the soul
My eyes are not there anymore. Blindly
Stuttering, I cannot speak.
These arms lack bones.
They were buried long ago, burned to blackened
Charcoal. Draw a masterpiece, dear.

Stab my physical canvas with toothpicks and see visions.
Crystal trees growing from my ears, reaching into your voice box.
Sing for me.

Make me dance over the salt, gives me rashes on my legs, blue flame licking what is yours.
Turn the key in my bleeding back. Twist my spine and laugh, watch as I writhe in
Lust?

How am I supposed to know. My brain is nonexistent, just gears and crushed light bulbs.
There is no light.
I took a step two nights past, I didn't see.

A tusk ****** through my foot, breaking bones.
I admire the animals caged at the zoo. They were stronger than I was, before they were
Eliminated. They are dying, wilting.
I drew flowers on my nails to represent them. A memorial to the horrid truth of knowing about the robotics of life.
This is just a computer, ringing a high. No going backwards. The button doesn't work, the transformer blew, we have no power.

My data was deleted.

Black hole, please, absorb this!
This horrible image,
This regrettable instance In which
I had lost myself to
Blindness.

Lover, Force me to look at you
And nit into the past that is
A marble statue with claws and teeth
That protrude like swords.
Tell me I can let go
Of the rotted flower petals
Covered in mold and betrayal,
They said they would stay
Beautiful!
Tell me I can rinse the slime
Of false hope from my body
And my intimacies so that
I may be pure for you.

Quicksand, drop this putrid locket
Into your depths and clog the clasp
So that no one will ever see the inside.
Obey Me!
Take my sacrifice, my past and
Everything
Corroded! Tell me
That I am able to forget
And be forgotten!

I am not a worthless *****.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not an unsuccessful, lazy person.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not a snotty *****.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not a stupid know-it-all.
Stop treating me like one.

I've always been told that I am a freak. Never anything else until my friends and my love showed up out of the blue. I am not perfect. I don't know why they care, but apparently they do. They are the ones who know most about the things I've done. My attempts, my pains, and my only therapy.

And everyone else that surrounds me claims they know me. Strong, independent, weird, a lover of poetry, and some say I am nice. Others call me a *****. That's not a bad thing... Ever heard of the golden rule? I act a ***** if you treat me as such. But those other things...
Strong... I am a ******* *****. I cried myself to sleep every night wishing, hoping that something, someone would **** me.
Independent... If I was I would be dead right now.
Weird... True, but only to mask the darkness I wish would shine through. My freakish nature is now just a bad habit.
Yes, I love poetry, but only because it is my escape, my diary. Reading it is my distraction. The words seep into me and give me a feeling other than my own.
Nice... I wish. I don't think I have the capability.

And some... Call me a liar. Well, this next chapter is for you.

How the hell do you know? The things that have happened to me, the things I believe, the things I have done, the things I almost accomplished. Why the **** would you care? Why in this "God's ****" world would I lie about trying to **** myself?
I came out because I am sick, I need help. That is soooooo hard to admit. I need help! I should have been hospitalized, but no. I kept everything hidden for months. I was scared specifically because I didn't want to be judged, sent away to a loony bin. I was scared that it would ruin my life, my work, my thoughts. Rob me of inspiration, stress would take over, I would be a ******* wreck! And it did. And I am.

I have taken a turn for the worst. I am trying, but if I need guidance, I don't know how.

I have started burning again. I am sorry.
I have started scratching again, I am sorry.
I have started biting the inside of my mouth again, tearing my cheeks apart. Love, you have probably noticed by now that I taste of iron. I am sorry.

Not sorry that I did it... No. Sorry that I ever stopped.
It doesn't heal me. It doesn't make things better, but there is something about pain that is seductive. Not as much as my lover is, no, but it calls to me still. Tells me I can confide in it. Tells me that I can show it my pain and hurt and will not be judged. Tells me that it will accept me because no one else will.

And that brings me back to you ******* who don't know jack.
You don't know me.
So why the judgement? Because I was ignored most of my life, so I don't know how to be social? Because I was bullied constantly for my hand-me-down clothes from an overweight cousin? Because I love literature from a time that I feel more connected to than now?
My friends know. They know because they get it, at least somewhat. They know my faults, predict my actions, offer solace. They saved me numerous times from falling down a well, gasoline burning at the bottom.
You haven't. Don't talk to me, don't give me that look, don't gossip about me, don't insult me.

You know why I did it? My parents ignored me, preferred my brother. My former friends were horrible people, using me. Rumors were constant because of people like you. Chemicals rotted, corroded, took over the place in my brain that made me happy. Stupid ******* diseases riddled my very being. I wanted it gone, over, done.
That was my last thought before suffocating and falling asleep. My last thought before I was about to finish my masterpiece and tie the final knot. My last thought before the buzz. My last thought before I read the name and lowered my hands.
The knots untied themselves. And I didn't even read the message before I let more of the acid tears escape. I survived, but I didn't know that I wanted to.

One thing in my life is actually good, but I can not get out yet. I can not move onto our island and buy a Tibetan mastiff. I can not fulfill the prophecy I have had many times throughout these past few months. Olivia, my daughter, won't come into the world yet.

I think it is happening again. my parents, the stupid, nasally voices blabbing about things they know nothing about. The chemicals inside my mind corroding me even more. And it has hardly gotten better. Help me escape or I will go insane. Or, at least, more than I already am.

I carry a bright love in my pocket,
On a chain around my neck,
In my own heart
Because love is intertwined.

"Hey, sweets! How was your trip?"
or
"Hey, love :) Hope you had a good time!"
or even
"Hey, I missed you."

No.

You forgot.

Hours after you get home, I sit waiting,
Not knowing when you would get home.

I was home at two yesterday.
I had service at eleven.
I left the cabin at nine in the morning
A six hour car ride
Wondering if you missed me, because I sure as hell missed you.

And I get a "hi."

Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings,
The drug that sings an Angel's lullaby, tosses you into the toy box like another rag-doll.
We've fallen for it again. The dusty dolls and
Hollow plastic telephones that hold spider eggs are the only companions now.
But I am here. And I am your friend.
Although I can not make any promises that I am beautiful, I will be as pretty as I can;
I will wear dresses and makeup.
My scars are not covered, they show and glow like luminescent tattoos etched into my skin.
Do you have any ink? Did your feather pen spill over the page, erasing your work?
Did the charcoal reflection ******* over and stain your perfect self?
Of course it did. That is what happens when the desk you write on is slanted, demented,
But it seems to be your twin.

Your mind is not a place of blazing meteors, honey. It's a place of evil things.

You are a twisted little *****, but so am I, you see. We have both taken the wrong path,
The only difference: I know how to survive. How to fool the monsters under the bed into thinking
I am one of them. In a way, I might even be telling the truth. I painted my own mask:
A splash of black here, a drop of blood there, and... Something is missing, but they won't notice.
They will always let me dance with them around their moonlit blue flames; I am their queen,
My mask, to them is beautiful. And they understand the me that I have fabricated to escape
The wretched toy box on the other side of the bedroom, over the mountains of ***** socks and
Dusty snow globes, even if a part of me is not complete.
I am still stuck in that box long after the room rotted away, the box melted in the
Sunlight and every speck of dust swept away by the wind and rain.
But at least more of the black poppies can grow.
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings, leaving everyone who slips the glass pill
Comatose in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down their throat to keep from asphyxiating.
No matter how many visitors come to read stories and play songs on the ukulele,
They will remain dormant. They are not longer home, so stop ringing the bell.

No, I take that back.
Ring the death bell one more time, invite everyone to the land of green grass and marble sculptures;
Tell them to bring poppies because it was the deceased's favorite flora,
But neglect to say which color. The visitors bring red,
An alien on the color spectrum and unrecognized by the ghost atop the gravestone.

Still, the dull color matches the spatter of blood on the mask I once wore, and I am brought back
A hologram, of sorts. The bowed heads below me are too dense to look up, except for one.
It's you, love. You grew the flowers that put me there.
The dull color that hypnotized me night after night and made me dream of your body
Covered in the withered petals. You, love. My poppy dealer.

I had a dream again.
A lovely one, with all but lust.
And yet I could feel everything.

I fell asleep in your arms, my skin on yours.
And a smile remained through the night.

I woke up this morning thinking of you,
And I searched for you in my sheets.
Then I realized.... I was a fool.

My endless pain, scars,
All hidden within the stars
My mind contains.

My dreams, fantasies,
Controlling the nerves that plead
Under my fingers.

I think, I feel dead
About the things of mine you steal
Such as my innocence

I hurt, I ******
The thoughts that bring me under
My reckless waters.

In between is where the ghouls are.
The gnomes, the sprites.
The mischievous ones that give you hell.
Today is a 'tween place.
One day, rest, another day, rest.

Sad day, rest, happy day, rest.

And today is a 'tween place.
I sense bad things. Clumsiness or confusion.

Hopefully tomorrow is better.

I hate myself. I hate my mind. I hate my body. I hate the way I speak. I hate my emotions. I hate my physical feelings. I hate my life. I hate my writing. I hate my thoughts. I hate the disjointed voices. I hate the way I walk. I hate the way I move. I hate the wayi eat, if I do at all. I hate the things I read. I hate the taste of my own blood. I hate my cheeks. I hate my teeth. I hate my torn up fingers. I hate my scars. I hate my bruises. I hate my hair. I hate my eyes. I hate my smile. I hate my lips. I hate my nose. I hate my diseases. I hate my depression. I hate my suicide. I hate my ADHD. I hate my anxiety. I hate my rumored schizophrenia. I hate my memories. I hate that people like me. I hate that people love me. I hate that people hate me. I hate being alone, but I hate being social. I hate the things I draw. I hate the things I talk about. I hate the treatment I go to. I hate how I try to help. I hate the things I learn. I hate my pain. I hate my blindness. I hate my voice. I hate my hearing. I hate the bracelet that pinches me. I hate the nise it makes. I hate the way the metal smells. I hate the bile in my throat when I feel guilty or scared. I hate the way I bite the inside of my mouth to bake myself bleed. I hate when I scratch and don't remember. I hate the way I shake when I cry. I hate being comforted. I hate when people talk to me. I hate wanting to go on even though I can't. I hate wanting to end this. End it all.

Same cycle, turning wheels and whirring motors
Running my life, mechanic.
Sleep and time are my loves, and I am Poe:
They were taken from me, my sleep is dead.

Sleep is eternally sleeping.

The dead spider under the refrigerator,
The crushed centipede on the bathroom wall,
Crawly things: crawlersout the dead skin you refuse to
Scrape off.
Skin sleeps and melts: drip on the floor, paint stains from the living room walls.
It has been the same color for years, the exact color I despise.
It reminds me of Mondays and Sundays.
The steriotypicality.
It goes in circles, everybody hates them
But they are me favorite shape. Not then arrows guide
In the forever, never ending march forward.
An army of automatons, gears screeching and crying, but most of us are so emotionless, faceless.
Drinking not the water or bubblies at party's, but the crude oil emitted from the ground.
And it turns their skin orange, no one likes the fake ness, caked on
Tar that you think make your eyes shine.
And the gossip, squeaky voices that talk endlessly about everything but reality.
I want to **** them all, the lies.
And I want to sleep forever, escape from everything I have ever despised,
And I want him to join me. Wrap me in a hot quilt that he formed with his own physique.
Somehow make me forget about everything but that.

But no, it doesn't fit in this never ending waterwheel. Not enough grooves to
Scoop up the sand of my life and give me a mission.
But we can defy the sand, the horrid hourglass that ticks away, the sound of pebbles
Plunking into a river.
Throw them off of a bridge and jump with them, as some people do.
Ignore them, or help them. Most are too blinded by themselves.
They can't stand change, but it shapes them. A unique shape other than the rounded
The rest are.
But I am lost. No clue where to go, what I am saying, I should be put away,
Blank white room or a steel table in a morgue.

Hallowed ground means nothing to me. Coffins are cramped, horrid boxes of sadness,
I will not die that way. No crying, tears will soil your handsome clothes.
I was reborn. You still have me close; my form changed. A circle
Does not define me anymore. I put another notch in my medicine wheel, another
Cure to my disease. Another way to say as much as I do.

But the walls are still the same dreary color. Skin just cooling, but splattered on the floor;
Cover it with a rug. Distract from the blank walls, no expression. Never changing.
Or write on them with colored pen. Carve things into them.
Change yourself. Put yourself away because inside that thick skull
Is an asylum of your own.

Throw a tomato! They're squishy...
Snails are too though, but you can't
Toss them too well.
You could use them like a baseball?
"Hey, batter batter. Swing!"
Touchdown!
But...
T
H
I
S
Isn't high school.
And we aren't jocks.
We just throw cabbages and rotten potatoes
Po-tah-toes.
Tomatoes.
To-mah-toes.
Lets call the whole thing off...

Well, now that my life has turned from better, to worse, to the most amazing time I have ever had, I'd like to say a few things.

First off, I have nothing to say.
Second, I am happy. Don't ruin my mood.

I like big bills and I can not lie.
No other hunter can deny,
When a duck waddles in with an itty bitty bill
And feathers in your face
You're on QUACK!
I gotta shoot him quick
But I noticed that duck was stuffed,
Even the tags it's wearin.
I'm hooked an I can't stop starin.
Oh, ducky, I gotta go shoot ya,
And take your picture.
The rangers try to warn me
But that bill you got makes
Me so hungry!

I have one last request. **** me.
Help me run away. Anything.
I sit here in agonizing pain as
I press my frozen fingertips
Into my burning eyes,
Trying,
Fighting,
Murdering every tear that threatens to escape.
I feel chilled across every expanse of my skin and
I wait for the end that I have wanted for so long.

I wake to see a hollow face at my left side
And I wonder if I've made another
Mistake when there are no
To be made. Maybe if I lift the truth, no.
I am faithful.
Suddenly the thought of  psyche
And the binding of public views
Overcomes the fear of there being no
Light left in the world
And suddenly the sun fell
Like the tears of a widow
After the sky said goodbye like
The waving of a handkerchief
As a husband goes to war
And when the sun said goodbye
And left everyone's skin to turn
Translucent and white,
Dooming the population to turn
To ash at the blink of a
Flashlight, the sky agreed with the sun
Left nothingness lying
In its place like a lover
After a night of ***** and regrets.
And as regrets leads to guilt, the
Mourning time resolves nothing.
Guilt leads to loneliness, and cats swell like a tsunami.
Loneliness leads to insanity,
Insanity leads. The march of war on foreign concrete.
Insanity leads you. Into the eye of the storm
As the water drains from the steel sink.
Insanity controls you.
Insanity is in you.

My emotions dry and crumble as leaves do.
The smell of pumpkin and cardamom
Reminds me of the day I cut myself
Deeper than I ever had before.

A few forgetful moments
And I am littered with paper cuts.
Each tear is a page: a meaning: a reason.

I am encased with quilts and a
Bubbling love, but the chills
And demons find their way through.

I was told
Explicitly
To pull my head out of my ***,
Because struggling with education, depression, and
Harassment
Is inconvenient for others.

I forgot to reline the trash can in the bathroom.

Dear diary,
I almost hurt myself again today. Its been over ten months since I did it last, but you know what a ***** life is.
See ya later!

***** reminds me of rainbows,
And vice-verse.
My stomach is thunder.

I don't have enough tears to make it rain,
But I might **** enough.

What should I do with my life?
I make decisions and
Work my *** off more than any
16 year old I know,
And care for others in any way I can
In hope that they will return the favor when I need it,
But I'm still ignorant and selfish, says she.

Sometimes I wonder which way is up
And right. A nervous tick of mine.
A moody strand of my being.
Trying to connect to reality, but curving...

It's funny, those mirror images. Small bracelets of macaroni-turned jewels,
Costly and pointless. Plastic race cars that mom and dad bought me
Zooming around and breaking vases that once
Held cigarette ash. Flowers wrote an essay on lung cancer,
A peer who, on a high night, was put into the vase.
Flora lungs are surreal.
Imagine a flower the shape of me: my blue hair and eyes the petals and bud,
My body a stem and lungs are the leaves,
Ripped out of my sternum and strewn into the antigravity that surrounds me.
A mirror image in another world,
But somehow not the same. Like nuns and ****** both
Screaming to God as their **** are groped and abused.
Collisions with the coffee table tip the coughing flower and let sailors tug on the ropes,
Sailing on the sea of liquid ash and sing "yo-no yo-**" all the way to the white carpet.
A memorial. To the woman who was saved hereby flashing lights and muffled sirens,
The drugs were too heavy.

And then we sit playing scrabble and watching the news. Oh that poor girl.
It doesn't matter though. It is far enough away to only think of palindromes to click in the
Plastic squares, a perfect fit for a triple word score.
But the score doesn't matter. It is what the word represents.
Reviver: one who brings back.
A necromancer? The zombified critters under the stairs because you felt bad about killing them.
They ate your food, but you conducted a mass ****** with that sweet poison that crystallizes
Their blood. Their parallel selves are still alive aren't they? The realms are separated by a thread,
Nothing more, so why must they be dead?

Why must they be characters in a movie? Everything is a lie, even the
Letters laid on the game board.
The words we speak is a made up language, the god most believe in
Is a figment of imagination. And so is mine. They are just creatures
Written in a book by drunken sailors, man himself,
Or warped versions of a goddess created by hags, high of of the leaves
Vining in their flowerbeds. Clouds came down because of the warm brandy and
Smoke from their pipes, polluted and *****.
Fog does not belong here, this Christmas, but at least it will mask the brick wall that
Everyone seems to crash into.
It is a theory of course; people with glass skulls and hollow brains won't live through it,
But it is worth a shot. No one knows whether you will be crushed, or the wall.
On the other side, the other half of the world, the mirrored side,
Exactly the same as the one behind. Nothing new, but everything to see. You haven't looked until
You've seen the opposite of yourself.

Heart beats irregular,
Figurative physical figments
Of our emotional imaginations.
Thrumming like humming birds.

Speaking so sluggish,
Moaning.
We shouldn't have to try so hard.

Lets be gentle,
slow,
loving.
Lets savor the
moment
and lose ourselves
in the way we taste
together.
Lets whisper
against our lips
as though we've
never heard
each other's voice.
Lets kiss in a way
that will bind us,
tangle us inside
a storybook.

I looked into the eyes of a simple sketch
And I saw the lines that I've followed and crossed.
The hand I've held and purposely missed
Is the one I've repeatedly loved and lost.

I'll hold out my hand for you and I can only
Pray that your graphite hand
Might someday take it.

I come here to be happy,
To find my place
And teach myself how to be
A true writer.

To me it seems
I try.
I try to speak,
Show myself,
Do what I am supposed to do here.
I am told to be myself,
There is no blending in.
And yet, it seems I have to.

No one cares. I cry
And they stare and walk past.
I had more support and reassurance
In the place where I was bullied and tormented
Daily.

And here,
Daily,
I am alone.
Cliques formed and I was, once again,
And outcast.

I want to find my smile in you,
But I wonder if I will be able to.
We are both in so much pain
And it seems like you avoid our
Problems. Even though we need
To fix what has been broken.
Patch what has been leaked.
And heal what has been hurt.

I sit and feel... Different.
Some would have inspiration, some would have peace,
And some would be able to think about anything with
That clanking of cups and the whirr of a coffee machine.
But I can't describe how strange I feel sitting here.
Maybe the people sitting here aren't supposed to be.
The snobs giggling and gossiping in the corner,
The waft of marijuana coming in from just outside of the door.
This isn't a normal place. And I
Am not a stereotypical poet.
I write paintings in my mind and draw poems with my lips.
And, right now, they aren't encasing the rim of a coffee mug.
I don't have the money.
And I don't have the rhyme scheme to
Make fun of those who don't get it.

Move against the darkness that bites your tail, little wolf. Fight back.
Don't you see the clearing at the edge of the bluff? The light that rains there?
Drops of glow, little stars come from the reflection of oceans.
Dance there, sing your song of howls and tribal verses.
Nothing is following you anymore. They have no want to,
You have changed into an ugly monster, dripping black and green poison.
No me wants to love a filthy girl, a demented form of a creature once sought after.
Just because the darkness yanks on your beaded hair does not mean it is evil.
You don't understand the liquid gold it speaks, you can not hear the warnings.
The white light that illuminates the field of carnivorous wild flowers
Transformed you to your true form.
And the meteor showers washed away the rest of you.
A bitter chill that encompasses the world you once knew, and isolation sets in.
The sound of your strangled cries are the only thing left, but even then,
The echoes are unbearable. Silence is your only friend.

No physical inspiration, no sound, and soon, you forget their name.
The one who kept you from destroying yourself in the first place.
Death himself asks you three questions.
"What is your name?"
I don't know.
"Do you want to die?"
Maybe.
"Why?"
I don't know.

The questions are written in your own blood, but the hooded figure is
Nowhere in the red reflection you stare into. No light. No light.
Yet you wake up in your own cave as if nothing has happened.
Nothing except the matted fur and the festering wound in your side,
Pain searing you to your bones, burning every thought to ash.

*Don't worry, little wolf. It will be over soon.
Just don't let the sunlight get you again.

Wishes.
Ways to project

The butterflies

And the carnal
Instinct.

A faerie dances,

Shackles lock
And *******
Occurs; a mental

State; reached
Toward any
Outcome.

Outburst of

(Final)

Findings: Salved mystery.

And then the seams broke.
The fabric unraveled in ghostly shades
Of purple, red, and black.
The slaughter of sanity could never be more
******.

The blood of the covenant is
Thicker than the water of the womb.

I am one with the demons rampaging,
Tearing my mind to pieces.
And yet,
Pain has never been so sweet.

I didn't mean to let fear rule,
But the destruction and disappointment
That runs rampant around me
Is a plague among vaccines.

A creature that I live with every day
Creates something that I can not escape from.
Something that follows me and rapes me of my happiness,
Something that recreates the worst parts of my life
And forces me to watch, paralyzed in my own bed.

The Creature has dyed red hair, brown eyes.
The creature weighs 136.2 lbs and continues to gain more.
This creature is 5'8" tall.

This creature shares the same name.
The same putrid name as the girl who
Fell in love with someone who saved her life,
But had to convince herself to keep loving him
In order to endure the thing he said to her.
The same ugly name as the girl who fell in love with
Someone else, but ignored him because of her guilt
And then kissed him only five days after
The one who saved her dumped her on her 16th birthday.
The same name as the girl who forced herself to feel
Numb because everyone who surrounds her
Tells her not to feel bad because they have or had it worse.

The creature screams, trying to make her happy, trying to
Please her, make her leave.
SHE REFUSES. Every day, she lays down and can't get up because
Nothing is worth it. The creature ignores her pull.
She leaves bruises with her fingers,
But the creature is used to the pain.

I am dressed in iron. Layers of it.
Sweat and blood mingling with tears.

And it rusts.

And erodes.

And crumbles.

And soon, my strong persona
Will be gone.
Or maybe it already is?
I've tried so hard to care for my armor,
But everything decays after a while.

I am exposed.

My fragile body is bare now,
And this glass figurine is crying.

She wants to be wrapped in steel this time. Titanium.
That way, she won't break as easily.
And her tears will no longer clatter on the floor,
Shattering into bright little stars.

They don't deserve to be stars.
They are dull.
She may hurt, but her tears are empty.
She has no tears left.

She gave those away too long ago, and they were lost.

And they were bright.
Wasted.


And she wants to be covered in molasses.
Maybe then, when she finds her tears again,
They will stick to her, and never leave.
Maybe she could use them again.

Reduce Reuse Recycle.
She could save her world, and allow
Other pains
To sleep there.
Absorb them from the creatures
She talks to daily.
Hiding them in her iron.
Steel.
Titanium.
Molasses.


Anything is better than
Glass.