hazy in september
third eye in the mirror
you bleed honey
where the mountain wolf bites

i tried to write a song
but the melody ran away
and i don't know
which one of us it was scared of.

next year the apple tree
will blossom again
and we'll hold on 'till then,
we'll hold on 'till then.

hit me
harder
make it
hurt
he told me
suffering
would make me
pure
i want to be pure
i want to be holy
i'm an angel
i'm a child
i'm a doll
and i'm so so so
scared of hell

i wear what you said
like jewelry
sometimes it glimmers
a dark red snarl of pain
sometimes it falls
silver cascading tears
sometimes it chokes
leather and dog teeth
sometimes i pull at it
i try to break it
and rip it away from my skin
but i guess that's just
the situation we're in
because right now
there's someone inside
i want to keep safe

i'm reckless with knives

i've got scarred, ****** knuckles,
but i'm still alive.

i'm reckless with knives

there are bits of me in the soup,
but i'm still alive.

i'm reckless with knives

i keep this one on my nightstand
it was made in nineteen forty five

but (somehow, unfortunately)
i'm still alive.

you
are the reason
my voice shakes when i sing

you
are the reason
i only feel safe in corners

you
are the reason
i talk like a baby doll

you
are the reason
i can walk without making a sound

you
are the reason
i guard my neck while i sleep

you
are the reason
there are teeth in my stomach;
gnawing and gnashing for the next terrible thing to happen.

i can't go a day without thinking of it.

you
make me sick.

there is something special
about the poetry of children,
the art of little girls
half remembered stories
spilling over from a past life
soon to be forgotten
scrawled on lined paper
decorated with stickers
scraps of fabric
and fallen leaves
a grin missing teeth says
"how do you spell angel?"
all innocence, sugary innocence,
but there is none here
this one draws devils
dancing at night
where have you been?
what have they shown you?
why do you already know
a hundred ways to use the colour red,
smashing markers and crayons
until they bleed and scream?

long legs
snow white
lips painted crimson
she glides
like a wind up doll
but was that a twitch?
a creak, a shiver?
it's because dolls
are more beautiful
when bones stick out
with coquettish doe eyes
fluttering, pleading
as snow settles
on her curled hair
and does not melt.