self control and limitations
blurry, vague negotiations
there are no new revelations
we are speaking in circles

this scene has become pathetic
religion is your anesthetic
denying everything magnetic
do you feel anything at all?

false pretense and disillusion
blind belief and mass confusion
no hope of a clear conclusion
soul at war with your body

I am trapped by your inaction
want to act on this attraction
you won't give me satisfaction
I'm always waiting for you, dear

my hopes and expectations
transform into your temptations
keeping you from your salvation
I don't want to be a sin

there's no bridge of understanding
I think your faith is too demanding
my desire for you is expanding
but you can't give me what I crave

Darkness,
I am confined again,
lost in between
the tight spaces
of my own old pretensions,
rules, laws.

I have no pretenses.
I know that it was I
who cast this wrought iron,
I who twisted the cruel key,
I who signed my fate.

It is safer here
in this tiny steel world
I have created for myself.
There is no you,
there is only me,
a twisted version,
skewed out of love,
out of reality,
distorted through fear,
perverted by hate,
self-directed, self-received.

Now I only have to worry
about myself,
my reactions.
And yet I am still
seeking your approval,
hoping you will see me,
weak and chained,
hoping you will say,
"Good girl! What self-control!
Look at how she tortures herself!
Look at how she gives herself
what she deserves!"

My burning hands
encircle cold, icy metal.
I am afraid the difference
will make them sear.
My eyes look out,
trying to see the jury,
trying to see the judge,
but they are all within the cell,
alone with me.

I yearn for freedom,
but it is hard to hope
after becoming so accustomed
to the chains.
The taste of spring air 
grows stale in my mouth.
The light fades slowly.

Someday
I will save me
from my prison,
from myself.

I am picking off the nail polish
from our last date together
and thinking of you
and how everything has changed
since I painstakingly painted
the color on my fingernails
and tried to have the patience
for it to dry
so I wouldn't **** it up
and everything could be perfect.
But everything disintegrates:
the paint chipped off
until there were only ugly blotches of pink
on my pale, pale fingers
and I grew obsessed with picking off the rest,
erasing the evidence of effort.

I am itching,
growing out of my skin
and your expectations of me.
I am walking
along city streets
lined with disappointed looks
and littered with broken dreams,
shattered in pieces like mirrors
that reflect
what never could have been.

I wish I could leave this world
in a blur of beauty:
red paint like blood
slashed across a canvas
white as porcelain skin.
There is something
in the terror of pure destruction
that appeals to me.
The scene of my suicide
will be my masterpiece,
a parting gift to the world
that gave me too little,
a chance to make things right.
Everything will be right
in the end
because I will see
the beauty.

You are distant from me,
Not in space or time,
But in a trickier dimension altogether,
Known as love.
And your distance
Makes me wish
I could build a spaceship
Fit to travel at the speed of changing hearts
And bring you back to me.