The black sun wreathed the land in a dark thick smoke. The once blue sky was crying, through eyes of blackened hope. A silence so dead had fallen, upon the fallen land. The smell of fire was fresh, it's charcoal after taste painted every breath. It's dying embers still linger, glowing like faeries in the day's bleak twilight. It felt as if their light had power, an undying immortality. Eerie crimson splotches, dotted the unmoving earth. As our boots moved noiselessly across the newly made waste. I came within reach of those orbs that seemed so much like the Sun's silent tears. And looking down upon the shallow crater in which it was buried. My eyes were met by the gaping maw of an undying corpse. In the blackness of that maw, my mind glimpsed the end of eternity. And the cessation of conscious life. The body held no soul, but it's visage was alive with the memory of pain. I could smell it's cooked grey skin, scent so heavy on the air. And suddenly an arm had reached out and launched me two full strides forward. At that moment, terror so pure and so harsh latched onto my heart with the intensity of a dying star.

I awake to the smell of concrete and rusted metal. Before the holes I call eyes open, the dank air embraces me. Fills my lungs like water and holds me tight as a forgotten lover. The tomb is silent but for the steady drip of water. A silent cacophony standing in stark defiance to the quiet that surrounds it. A futile display. My eyes flicker but do not open. Dark suns encased in a greater blackness. They're bountiful rays oppressed by the night that will not relinquish its hold. But a crack is made, and the dull grey of life seeps through. I am greeted by an empty hallway, forlorn and devoid of consciousness. A puddle has gathered in its centre, an odd and misshapen thing. A rustic inkblot that Rorschach would have been happy to give employ. I wondered if I could reach it through the bars. Touch it, and vicariously immerse myself in its freedom.  In its possibility. Suddenly, the grate of iron on iron filled the halls. The shriek of metal and old hinges joined the chorus, until finally, only steps remained. Calm, solemn things whose leisure exerted authority upon the air. My mind urged me to rise, but my body lacked the will to comply. Dark eyes like hungry fires greeted the stranger, dressed in fine dapper if not damp wear. His eyes were as winter, blue orbs of chipped ice. His lips formed a smile and in it betrayed their lack of sincerity. There was a violence to his gaze, an unsuppressed furry. His lips were moving, words were being spoken yet I could barely grasp a whisper. I forced myself to focus, to return from that inner retreat, and slowly, the noises of the world came back to me. His voice faded into being, a surprisingly pleasant baritone "... your arraignment is to be set a month from now, the retrial will commence shortly there after and you will be placed in a holding facility till the remainder of the trial is concluded. A noticeably finer arrangement then solitary. Any questions?"
A small part of me chuckled, the sound was hoarse, grim, more like the wheezing cough of a dying man than a laugh. He seemed to smile, a severity to the sincerity of the gesture. As if cruelty lay just beyond the border of his lips. They were moving again, morphing and contorting into different shapes. The noises they made were a blur though, fading like the sound of a car disappearing into the distance. Its slow engine purring out of existence.

Somewhere in these long, midnight drives, somewhere in these litters of I love you's I never said, in the creases of my month-old sheets and in the calls I never made, somewhere between the daybreak and quiet Sunday mornings, between the lamp posts in the streets, between tonight and the first night I knew you, between the sound of hello's, and the sound of things ending for good — somewhere out there, darling, is a place where we've never fallen out love.

I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. But no, I am no comet. I am just a girl — all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken mugs. Broken matches. Scissors running over my skin. Is it so bad then — wishing for my bones to finally break this time?

I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them, so save my poems and all my tales. Save me the apologies I cannot say. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

"It's not enough."

"No, it's not. It's okay."

Save me the apologies I cannot say.

And once more, I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. And this time, darling, there is no way to survive the fall.

The ale smell stained on my shirt. The bricked wall of my rented studio apartment. The state of dealing treachery. The ill-lit midnight lobby. The sun crayoning orange shadows over the ghastly, grotty bathroom. All for the mite chance of my words prancing on the article.

This is how the teens, now adults,
Cope with their newfound independence,
Overwhelmed by the world and
Drunk on their freedom,
Here, where minds are warped
And time is replaced by the
Spinning of your head as
Our souls are pulled together in
Meaningless,
Powerful ways,
Only daring to fall into
The comfort of one another
As poison courses through our veins,
Setting our minds safely adrift
In the static.

Under the cheap, yellowed lights of
Barren apartments and temporary IKEA dorms,
Our limbs turn boneless
As we submit to the gravity,
Unable to stand,
Crashing together on torn up couches
Threatening to collapse,
Reveling in the warmth of each other as
Rambunctious laughter bubbles forth,
Unbidden, from tired throats as
We try in vain to keep the night at bay,
Seeking peace beyond reality.

The inevitability of growing older breathes louder at night.

Creeps in faster during the hours of the am, and smothers you until you slowly dream of a life you’ll never have.

Wake up and repeat.

You’ll never be younger than what you are today they say and that worries you more than it did yesterday, but this is only the beginning from now until the rest of your days.

You remember that line forever.

Life doesn’t get better, it just gets more adjustable.

As you grow
they'll try to prop you up
with rigid twig
and twist you round their garden rules
not realizing you have already sprung
and bloomed round your own forested path
     -I will not be a vine