My neck was patterned with lines of light pink
from the tight grasp of your hands;
you hovered over me, stared me in the eyes, and screamed
- your mouth tight, your eyes wide.

Your fingers fell south,
and your lips wandered over the pink stripes of my throat
-stinging under affection.
The irony of you kissing away the marks you've left.

The clock stopped, but the hour-hand in your eyes kept spinning,
and I could tell I was almost out of time.
Mental picture, mental note. Stares. Questions. Why?
No reason, no reason -but there was,
and I threw reality at your eyes.
broke the clock, and fast-forwarded to the goodbye before it was time.

Choke me again,
your hands are more comforting than this lack of air.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

febuary 11, 2014*

sometimes I find myself
talking to the wall;
but if someone were to catch me,
I'd say I was talking to your ghost.

Though your presence seems dead,
you are still alive to me.

I've kissed you,
and held your hand,
and comforted you,

only to realize,
you're nothing but a blank white wall.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014

what was I  thinking?
a boy who doesn't care about anything,
could never care about me.

how did I expect him to hold me
as tightly as he did that cigarette?
I'm not a flame that burns out,
and when he realized that,
he smashed me on the ground.

I am not a flame that burns out.

I'll submerge the world before me in flames,
and destroy all of which once existed;
there will be no more remains of you and me
except in my memory, god, please take it away from me*

what was I thinking.
oh, what was I thinking.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014*

my head in his lap,
his eyes gazing in mine,
playful fighting,

his finger runs down my arm,
and his arms wrap around me
keeping me captive -keeping me close,
his fingers interlock with mine,
and he opened the cage,
and let the butterflies roam free.

but his eyes are red,
and his breath smells of cigarettes and alcohol;
he could never love me as much as he loves life
when he is drowning by the bottle.

but god, he is beautiful.
and god, how much I'm going to hurt.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014*

his eyes are like grey marbles,
sprinkled with green ivy.
his hair is like sunkissed ocean waves ,
his hands are tsunamis.
he's beautiful and dangerous,
his hands leave the ocean screaming;
his voice ***** like the water hitting the shore
-it acts as a nerve, 'cause I can't help but smile.

when he sings he sings out of tune,
but even still the birds are in awe;

how can something so disastrous be so beautiful?
how can something so right be so wrong?

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

it's far too cold to just wander around,
and we're too far gone to save anything.

the film plays
a 1950's film
I am lost for a moment;
dancing to the blues and looking into the eyes of a lover -they're grey.
grey eyes. grey skin. grey lips. grey ballroom.
grey. grey. grey. -everything is grey.

But his eyes are a deep grey with light specks,
and the tiles on the floor are patterned with different shades,
and he is dressed with dark grey attire
-but he is the most colourful thing I have ever seen.

In a colourful world you would think things would be complementary;
but the more colourful it appears, the more black and white it is;
the carpet is red, just red, the walls are white, just white,
his eyes are brown. Just brown.
but in this film his eyes are grey -light, grainy, grey.

There's grey in his eyes,
and there's grey all around me,
but my, I seem to have gotten lost;
his eyes are the most colourful things I've ever seen in my life.

the film stops.

(Nicole Joanne) all rights reserved