Numbing monotony
blurs through each day.
I try to glide along,
past every dull moment
unscathed
and uninterrupted.
Let nothing break through
the haze of boredom
and loneliness.

Cracks and speed bumps
ruin my plans
of a smooth path,
until I nearly jolt
to a jarring stop.
I attempt to continue
sluggishly drag my body
try to march ahead
enter the fog
avoid the obstacles.
Head high,
back straight,
eyes forward,
perceive as little as possible.

But creeping tendrils
of smoke and pain
pull me down
into thick darkness.

And I never stop fighting
my way out,
only to fall back in.

a young girl
without a face
and without a name
means very little to this world;
this world that is obsessed
with faces and names,
appearances and labels.
anyone,
any girl,
who wants to be
someone
in this world
has to build a new face
out of plaster and paint
remodel and decorate
and has to create a new name
out of assumptions and stereotypes
bend and assimilate
because without a face
and without a name
you are nobody to this world.

but those girls without
faces and names,
without
painted stereotypes,
those of them
who don't want to be
something
to
this world,
but rather
someone
to
somebody,
don't need to become
anything,
except
for
themselves.

There is a mask,
I feel it fall.
Over me, over all.

There is a fog,
I feel it cling.
Choking me, everything.

Open my eyes,
Close my heart.
Under my guise,
I fall apart.

It darkens night,
Outshines the sun.
The mask can fight,
But the fog has won.

Sometimes you can't avoid
ruining a beautiful thing.
You have to take another step,
even if you crush a flower underfoot.
You tell yourself you have to do it,
but it feels wrong.
Destroying something so innocent,
leaving behind the tangled wreckage.
Wilted blossoms and broken stems.
You can't stand still,
waiting for the flower to move.
Tread as delicately as you can.
Hoping.
To leave some of the innocence
and purity behind, some of the life.
To not destroy it completely.


*"It feels wrong
to trample flowers."

J'ai honte.
I am ashamed.

This guilt is all-consuming.
I don't know what I'm doing,
and I don't know
where this is going.
And whatever this feeling is,
it's growing,
swelling,
until I'm bursting.
Wanting
          to scream
          to cry
          to hide.
until this all goes away.
Far,
     far,
         away.

But it's not just going to disappear.
It* has nowhere to go.
I can't run away,
it will only follow.
This doesn't just concern me,
it affects the hearts I've borrowed.
And it opens up this emptiness,
like my own heart is hollowed.
I would that it were.
It's too full, pressure building,
the thoughts are pressing,
leaving hard impressions
on the insides of my skull.
Until it becomes too much,
and the secret that I've kept concealed
spills forth,
leaving me broken
and exhausted.
Drained.

I am hidden.
Hiding, lurking
Deep in the darkest corner,
the saddest, weakest crevice
of your mind.
Spreading -- sickening the rest.
You're fully aware that I'm there --
I don't hide from you.
I'm too busy torturing you,
day after day.
Shifting doubt and fear
onto the simplest sentence,
the kindest comment.
Poking, prodding,
supplying crippling explanations.
Disabling you,
turning any self-esteem you could have had
into a mess, a catastrophe,
a disaster of a girl.
No,
I couldn't hide from you.

I hide from anyone else.
You try to reach out for help,
but I pull you back.
You try to explain how I work,
but I steal the words
out of your mouth.
You can't explain,
and I make sure that you don't want to,
                                                                 not really.
Because what would they think?
No one wants to know,
No one wants to have your diseased thoughts
dumped on them,
Hold it back,
Keep it in.
Keep me in.

Let me fester, infect,
every feeling.
I decay, rot.
Scarring.

Good luck getting rid of me.

It seems as though
I can only write
whilst in the possession
of angst and fright.
I weep and moan,
fret and fidget...
The words come so easily.
Rhyming schemes,
haunting themes.
My byproducts of wounds
and worries.

However, currently,
no such struggles writhe within,
tricking
        and torturing
                         my mind.

Hence, here cometh
my semi-decent work.
Pathetic ploys, amorphous attempts.
Flagrant failures, endless endeavors.