Little cunning foxes jumping over bushes,
              slaughtering the sheep I have been counting in my sleep.

I hand-pick plump raspberries while I watch the foxes
              rip out their throats, all of our lips stained red & ******.

My hazy sepia toned dream shimmers as I sit in the grass,
              sipping on a glass of arsenic laced strawberry lemonade.

The cool sun hugs my skin and my collarbones
              that jut and cut my finger as I brush a hair off my shoulder.

I look down at the pin ***** absentmindedly and glance
              at my foxes as their black eyes gaze upon me wildly.

Magenta stained muzzles set in stone as they begin to roam
              surrounding the circumference of my skirt, snapping their jaws.

Ebony teeth tearing me like cloth, jerking my body like
              a frail little rag doll dancing with these fiendish, lovely beasts.

They leave me quietly, bones picked nearly clean, waiting now
               for flowers to bloom in my hollow chest and my empty eyes.

The youth are scratching up their throats
with paper & tobacco smokes.

Pinpricking holes in the fleshy, lonely parts
of their abandoned souls.

Rolling nature into little papers and trying
to slow the pleasure.

Drowning their sorrows in sickly sweets borrowed
from their parents' liquor cabinets.

Candy pills and paper squares dissolving,
highlighting the bright, evolving.

We came of age, we trade in our dreams for smoke, bottles, powder, needles, hallucinations, vibrations and green.

We saw others crumble, dead or alive, it spit all of us out eventually.

For those who lived, it's sad to see our fallen brethren as we walk towards adult mediocrity.

dew drop demons heavily falling off the leaves
                                                           then landing on my cheeks
                         where the absent of tears is present
electric strands twisting in the clouds
                                            making loud noises illuminating my face
                  and shaking loose the self knotted noose
the birds are calling to me,
                               chirping quietly watching with beady black eyes,
          responding to my cries and lamentations
as I fall to my knees, no longer running,
                                                                ­     ready  
                                                         ­      my wails turn into whimpers
as their wings began to whisper
                                  the raindrops start to quiver,
                                                              da­mpening my already worn skin
cuts from branches and thorns burn
                                             and my clothes are torn
I can hear them in the silence
                      as they take flight
             then gently land
in my hair and on my bare skin,
                                               their little claw like fingers grasp
I'm surrounded in sight by bright black wings
                                      circling my vision
                          they begin twisting into shapes I've never seen
               eradicating me
                                 and I go home,
                                                      painl­essly.

What do I do if I've used up all the open vacancies?

There are no more people to use as homes to hide in.

I have to go back into myself, my rooms, my hallways.

Where everything has gathered so much dust.

All curtains have stilled waiting for me to stir them.

I don't remember which doors lead where.

Or if they lead anywhere.

Are they now just ajar, vast caverns into the silence of space?

How much time as passed?

I've lost track.

I have to go back.

But I can't.

I'll sit outside of myself on the steps.

Try not to turn my eyes at the casting shadow

But everything is so,

so,

empty.

And I'm too scared to make it through the doorway.

I drafted my dreams out on a string from window to window

                                                         ­                                               Where they could see some sunshine

                So that they could feel the breeze that whipped the willow trees

                                                          ­I lay on the grass for hours hoping something would change

                                        Everything seemed so strange and sadly serene

My dreams used to be such a large part of me
  
                                                           ­                          I finished my cigarette as the wind writhed, breathing

                                    Pulled down the preliminary principles made of follies, folded them quietly

       Walked inside, adjusting my somber eyes to darker lights

                                                         ­       I open the closet door gently, hands full of my old fabrications

                             I keep lying to myself & trying to tell myself I'm
                                                             ­                                                   putting them away for
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                     *'safe-keeping'.