the world turns quickly;
you and i are on different highways,
you are meant to be on silver screens
and i am meant to live normally, never to be seen

i could keep falling for your eyes,
i could keep admiring your pretty soul,
but this is the truth,
hidden in between the lines of my longing:
*i can't love you forever
but i'm going to love you for a long time

to the brilliant minds of the warehouse
who embraced all oddities
in painted nails and tattoos,
whose hands worked wonders
and made masterpieces,
who loved the world
and spoke up
in technicolor and loud sounds...

you will always blaze brighter
than the fires that took you

perhaps if i breathed deep enough
i could inhale the entire universe
and for a moment's worth
i'd feel the stars swirling in my chest,
the seas dancing in my lungs
and the winds running through my veins

and perhaps, if i exhaled just as much
i would breathe out the world
from my skin and bones,
and let it take the weight of sadness
that i carry in my chest.

i feel the size of my heart
growing bigger and bigger
yet i feel still feel so small
in this sea of people
in this world
with trees as tall as buildings
and people as lovely as the rain

i. when we die,
do our bodies become lighter?
do our souls fly away,
taking with it the weight our lives have carried
and leaving our skin and bones to drift in the wind?

ii. the other day i held you in my arms,
your eyes hollow and your voice a whisper;
you said it was just as a bad day,
i knew better than to believe you and i was afraid—
then suddenly, you were as light as a feather

you're seventeen years old
it begins with confusion and ends with thinking
you're too old yet too young
you want to be set free
yet you want to hide at the same time

you're seventeen years old
and you feel the gravity
of the sleeplessness
tug on your eyelids gently,
saying "go to sleep" during the wrong times

you're seventeen years old
and you think you've found solace
in the noise and silence
but you somehow hear the heartbeat
of cities far away
and you feel small in your own bedroom

you're seventeen years old
and by now you thought
you would have learned to love,
and you have learned to love
in the right ways but for the wrong people
and still you haven't learned to love yourself

you're seventeen years old
you've done the worst and best
and you need to be reminded of this:
you are still growing
and you will be okay.

the enchantress is on the hunt tonight—
behind her veil hides a porcelain doll's face.
when you smell the fragrance of dreams and death,
you know she is coming.

be wary, you are doomed:
take her spell,
be dizzy in her love like moonlight
let her song deafen you
let her magic have you dumbfounded
let her poison seep into your veins;
"honey, you don't need necromancy to know i'm your fate, your future" she says,
as she brews her poison
to be sipped like wine.

the enchantress is on the hunt tonight
she's out to get you,
there's no way out except in,
into the twisted world of the strange occult queen who always wins.