We invented god, and fear
ourselves
and our
own creations.

Torn in flesh, worn in faces,
I like it when I walk somewhere
and the sidewalks are suspiciously
empty of strangers.

Thumps like clockwork,
and speeds up for all the same reasons.

Listening to Miles Davis,
******* a stranger in the bathroom,
falling in love again,
screaming and crying
and banging your head against the wall.

The clouds dissolve and when they
almost see you face to face,
you burn down your bridges
and make them start from
square one.

A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.

Restlessly bleeding words onto a page
And looking past cliches to realize
Just how beautiful they are
Can only mean one thing.

The monster is back.

in the next ten seconds,
he opens his mouth to speak to an acquaintance in a room full of acquaintances
an ugly metal faucet that has been dripping for fifteen days drips again in an upstairs sink
he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she bites at her fingernails and
            looks at the magazines lined up in the supermarket
before she opens the postbox, she inhales
she throws her head back before laughing at his anecdote, her knees feeling the ache
            of being crossed for too long
with slightly tremulous fingers, she touches she sleeve of her coat without reason, feeling
            like everyone on the underground train may be looking at her
he takes a sip of water and screws the lid back on, checking his watch
a hiccup is heard from the back of a classrm
he kisses her for the first time on the mouth
he notices his hair has fallen out and sits in the shower drain
their elbows graze against one another's in the lecture hall but neither of them
             catch the other's eye, both staring straight ahead
she blots her lips over a folded tissue to remove pink residue and looks herself in the eye
             in the mirror
her father lets go f her shoulders as she wobbles on the bicycle without its stabilisers
             for a second attempt today
he notices a stain of yogurt on his tie and curses quietly
she burns her fingers whilst making toast
she argues with the cashier about the fact that selected juices were marked as being on offer
the rain rattles against the window and he is uneasy with the lack of rhythm in its sound
they put on her favourite song and remember her as she was when she was still alive
someone wipes salt from her cheeks with a tissue
he realises that the tooth fairy doesn't exist and doesn't mind because it means he's grown up
she asks her father if she is pretty and he say anything
she slips a packet of biscuits into the supermarket trolley, her mother sees
             and doesn't say anything
an elderly woman cradles his arm as they slowly cross the street
they look at one another and both know
he says I'm so sorry
she says I'm so sorry
he says I love you
she says you know I do.

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.

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.

Outside still clouds gather
Here inside I don’t understand
What hole I am
And what it means
On the leaves and grass the mist clings
I hurt
And try to find
What reason I have
For this anger
I hold
Shaken by the breeze,
Drops of water fall
I want it to leave
And not say goodbye
I have no love for it
Here it hurts and eats away

At all I have made
Of my heart and soul
But now this anger
Deep and awful
Rumbles along
With approaching thunder
Haunts
And I try
To rid myself of the pain
Look away from the quick flashes
But without a source
A reason why
I cannot solve
This mess inside and
Lightning slashes, branches bow and
I hurt

Cause it won’t go away
And I feel as if all
I have to say is
To hell with
Everything and everyone
As precipitation swirls and clouds darken further
Because all that matters
Is the tornado that holds
All my organs and emotions
Crashing and churning
In one same whirling vortex
But I know that it’s wrong
To me so self-righteous
As wind breaks and takes

I cannot stand
The ones who seem to
Indeed share my own fault
For the ones with whom you share
Are the souls upon whom you are the harshest
And I do not like to admit
To the things that make me
Like all the rest

I am cruel
I do bad things
I am mean
I hurt
I am human
I am caring
I am soft
I hold
I break
I am ashamed

To be who I am
walking a two way street
I attempt to hold my head high
Because I know what is right
But other minds won’t agree
The trees who’s leaves the storm has taken
Yearn for them once more
My head chases me in circles
So to confuse me
And I begin to cry out
But the storm recedes
In frustration and fury
At my own head’s distaste
And demure
I am not who I want to be
This storm has changed
And I am not the perfection
That is trained into the lines
That wind and rain have worn

On my personality
Perfection for me and all is impossible
As the definition of human is
As it may be imperfection
Created as rain falls
Only to be replaced by sun
As fate would have it
And so my anger flows slower
The pound of the thunder stole my force
In naught but words
One might read
And empathize
Although I do not ask it
As this is what I have brought
Down upon the back of myself
With all the things that I have done
And through this rambling anger
And broken chaos swirling leaves, water and dirt
I find my answer
And no longer feel the sick
Stone in the pit of my soul
That a flash and rumbling boom removed
Perhaps I am no longer as angry and sick
Or perhaps I just cannot feel it as strongly
For I fear that I am angry
With myself
For my own imperfection
As I have moved from the clouds
For that is who and what I am
As fate may have it
I have been centered
In the eye
However, I am human

The desires drifting at the edge of one's mind,
The vibrant colours of possibility,
That flash behind fluttering eyes.

Where one can reside in the tranquility,
Of their own imagination;
Free of deprivation and distress.

An inviting resort for images,
And lightning-like flashes of inspiration,
To mold into creative bliss.

Where sparks of enlightenment,
Are set free,
And may conquer the doubt of the unworthy.

The solid confines of an otherwise open mind,
Inaccessible consciously,
Safe from the nightmares of reality.

All must learn to pursue dreams,
Persuade destiny,
And crave the capability of our minds.