This is the first breath that I've ever cared about.
Please abandon your everlasting doubt.
We've opened up a magic portal through an alien route,
exposing you to my internally dying dehydrating drought.

I'm like a waning foreign phoenix finding fairness in its contaminated ashes.
I still get flashes of post-traumatic emotional rashes,
from an abstract haunting nightmare  that I don't care to wear
on my not-so-bare chest anymore.
Be aware that I don't always do my share,
and that I am made of skin that has been known to ware and tear.
If this is just Truth or Dare, I don't want to play anymore.
Please be fair.
Please beware.

The snow has suddenly stopped straining my spiraling somber sorrows into silent sirens sounding seasonal surreal suicidal scenes of secret sappy solitude tomorrows.

And though the weakening leaves outside are withering,
and my feeble frozen bones are quietly quivering;
my shivering insides are shyly shifting
into brand new hues of brighter blues
that are constantly turning into a lighter and mightier muse,
like the autumn leaves that heroically live beneath my yearning Red Wing shoes.

I'm on a blissful beach of elated snow,
burying my feet in what we both know;
that our doubt has been put to rest below.

Is my perception becoming coherent now that I barely recognize you?
Is my brain becoming coordinated now that I realize I cannot hypnotize you?
I still spend my darkness delirious, longing for you to crave me,
and analyzing all the misread clandestine messages you gave me.

I'll be a liability until the time I am too old to lose;
until I choose for you to no longer be my shameful muse.
I'm no longer amused, just bemused and confused about how you could choose a sharper muse over my bitter heart which is drenched to the core in shameful *****.

I apologize for not being the durable woman you thought you appreciated.
The casket I built for my heart is too small for it to grow into a durable heart to be appreciated.
I wish I could be the new damsel you stumble into, but now you're wavering with a new damsel crew.

Is my perception becoming coherent now that I barely recognize you?
Is my brain becoming coordinated now that I realize your eyes told more lies than my empty hole, which only stubbornly cries?

I wish I could settle inside an insignificant casket with yellow birds and albino rats.
My hat's off to you for being my frozen rat that's in my exposed and taunting freezer, congrats.
Why won't you let me bury you like my frozen albino rats?

If there's anything I can do for you, you would never have to beg me.
Let me. I beg you.
Be indigo blue for me and I'll be true to you with nothing better to do than you.

I want to dimple your smile and file you away in the mile deep corners of my unkind mind---
even if it means bruising my dusty knees.
Please, be my hopeless Hercules with equally dusty knees.

Is my esophagus so full of **** that I have to purify it just to please?
Do I have to clear it just to breathe properly?
I fear I can merely wheeze miserably.
I hope it's just a stage; a torn out page in my autobiography that's theme I can no longer gauge.
Imagine the heart I could be able to manage successfully if I could only manage to grow gracefully with age.

Hello, see me.
Be with me and then free me.
Believe in me.
Bereave yourself of me.
Heave dust with me.
Believe in rust with me.
Be faithful rust for me.
Trust in me.
This must only be lust with me.

I'm a dark horse, shining bright black;
not confident about my silent and unsuccessful deathly attack.
I know I'm out of wack and disturbing.
Come back and engulf yourself in my misery.
Be dizzy for me and be unaware of where you are anymore.
Make me your least favorite chore. Make me your dishes.
Fulfill my wishes that I can't even articulate to you.
Be my hue of indigo blue and continue to do what you so desperately don't want to.

I've never been a front and center dancer,
but my childhood reveries want me to be a star.
But instead I'm stuck sitting in a bar counting my internal scars;
like notches on the bedpost you imagine holding up your mattress on the floor.
I wish I could simply coast like everyone else,
but instead I exist only as a transparent ghost tentatively listening to everyone boast about how humble they are.
No one is a star and I can't even see a path to go far anymore.

So turn down my music and witness me slowly lose it until there's nothing left to lose anymore.
All that will be left is my protected core, naked and vulnerable.
I'm the bull forced to fight and you're my matador.
I wish the door to my heart wasn't permanently unlocked.
I wish you would knock on my mock turtle heart that you can somehow touch while we're miles apart.
I wish I didn't exist only at the start.

This is my internal explosion. It's as if I slit a piece of art into every ***** and drained out everything that was taking up too much room, suffocating me. And everybody is wading in a pool of my insides without even noticing. I'm all torn apart far away from everyone and my pipe intestines are still leaking. Just put a rusty bucket beneath them. **** it. Let's wait for a mechanic that we don't even know to fix the leak and dump my organs into some random creek. I know I am weak, even though I act like a too cool for school freak, alienating me to nothing. Forgive me. You'll outlive me because I don't even feel alive anymore. I wish I was still a chore. I wish I didn't only exist on the outside of the door to your brain, unlike before. I wish I could still live in the insane with you. I wish I could be an amplifier for you. I wish I could still fly for you. I wish I could die with you. You hate it when I cry with you, so why do you always make me cry for you? Why do you force me to die for you all the time? I'm your zombie lover, standing for nothing except your brain.I wish I wanted to eat your brain but I only want to live inside of it. I'm your zombie lover trying and failing to haunt your memories. Why aren't you scared of me? You were never prepared for me. You never really cared for me or truly bared it all for me, until I was already buried. It's not like we were married or whatever. I just wish we could have carried the weight of our hearts together. But you never wanted my support or should I say weight, or should I say baggage, or should I say obnoxious and monotonous heavy heart?

You say you don't want to be with anybody right now. Does that make me just anybody? And don't kid me, please. I wish I wasn't so whiny and I wish your feelings weren't so tiny. I wish if I yelled, "Hide and seek!" you would actually try to find me. I wish you would be kind to me. I'm binded to my lonely splint of solitude. I wish people would quit asking about my mood as if they don't understand that I'm brooding my monotonous personal etude constantly. My etude's mood is a just a ******* boring dude at party.

My heart is a leaky pipe dripping tears into an empty bucket. **** it.

It's funny to think about all the times you asked me to smoke a cigarette with you and I told you it was too cold, so I waited patiently inside, knowing you'd come back.

Now I'd travel to Antarctica if it meant I could smoke a cigarette with you.

Now I smoke alone and the sound of me flicking the end of my cigarette sounds like the side-door to my brain opening and slamming shut--- the one only you have the key for.

You're a winged beetle and I am a lightening roach during our paranormal hour.
Why am I struggling the weight of a vagabond on my slack-spine back with slack strings that bring silly string dreams to my brain starring an amateur fawn.
Why are you attracting your mate this late in the morning?
I think I'm late to my own mourning ceremony.
How phony of me to accept this bait that that I've dangled so familiarly.
Silly me with my silly string lullabies like sighs of goodbye pranks.
Thanks for making me your mate, or am I prey?
I've been growing a frigid light inside me.
I've watered it and watched it grow into a person.
This frigid light suggested a tundra flight in an instant shock,
juxtaposing the dismal night like an instant dusty fish on our musty hidden floor.
I'm just an instant dusty chore,
a crusty crustacean washed up on the faded shore.
I'm just a maudlin faded bore that's always needing more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more.
I wish I wasn't an instant fish, beautiful and shocking,
unlocking a rainbow that's inducing emotions that I'm chemically reducing slowing to nothing,
producing lightening from my murky roach of a lower firefly belly,
that's been on display a lot lately,
greatly failing to focus your unfocused attention.
I'd like to mention how the lines of your words and the lines of your body and the lines of your face have become blurred to me.
Tomorrow they will be crisp and clear, though.
I know they will be and my head will be sleeping in an endless foggy dream.

I had a dream last night. It was one of those dreams where you can't tell if you're awake, or even alive. But actually, I had a nightmare last night. It was one of those nightmares where you can't tell if the darkness lives inside of you, eating away at your organs, or if the darkness is surrounding you and eating away at you. But if I'm being honest with you, last night was a tragedy. It was one of those tragedies where you can't tell if everyone actually dies in the end or if we've all just been dead the whole time.

In my dream I was sleeping with the stars, high up in a nest that I made from all of the sticks from eyes and the branches from my brain and the leaves filling up my heart like taxidermy; making it look like it was never stomped on and kicked to the curb like road ****. Making it look like it wasn't shot at for sport because it would look nice hung up above the mantle.

And suddenly my leaves were running away from me into the current of the wind, and the wind was running too, as if the wind came and swept them away from me, but I knew better. My leaves weren't taken from me. They were leaving me. And the wind was leaving too and I could see the wind holding my stuffed up heart above me, taunting me, "na-na-nanana, I'm not touching you!" until I could feel that there was no more wind left in my heart. I always knew my heart was only felt with dead leaves and sticks but I didn't feel it until that moment.

Suddenly, the wind threw my heart to the ground with a malice that I never knew it had. How could my wind, once a gentle breeze caressing my skin, treat me so harshly? The wind threw my heart to the ground which such a speed that I thought for sure it would make a ****** mess all over the cobblestone pavement. And then, I realized I had fallen too, without even noticing because I was so focused on the potential pain of my heart that I never noticed my own body sprawled upon the ground. And I lay there I watched my heart beating outside of my chest, knocking on the ground. I saw it leaking, as if somebody had poked tiny little holes in it; blood was oozing out of it but not in the gory Tarantino kind of way. My heart was crying crimson tears that flowed through the cobblestone like veins dying to be seen by everybody. And then I watched it stop beating as if it simply ran out batteries and I had to go to the store to buy more but I knew better. Even batteries couldn't revive it this time.

And I was terrified, so I turned away from it because I couldn't look at it anymore. But what I saw behind me, staring me in the face, was far more terrifying.

It was you. And you were watching me like you had been there the whole time and I never noticed because I was so **** distracted by my beating heart like a bird buzzing in my ear, my heart was making intricate rhythms with my eardrums creating a song that I couldn't get out of my head anymore my heart was needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing my attention. Pathetic. And as I observed you I noticed... you weren't breathing either. So I started pushing you, shoving you, hitting you, shaking you, trying to wake you up, demanding your unanimated attention... but you were stuck like me. Just dreaming.

It was like the old days, you were alive but not awake. There were no more golden stars in your eyes, they were empty. And your eyes didn't look at me anymore because they were empty. No, there were no more golden stars in your empty eyes when you looked at the golden birds buzzing around my head like a heavy halo crown straining my neck, they were just annoying to you. No, you had some ****** up agenda in a foreign language from a ****** up foreign planet that I couldn't understand. And you knew I couldn't speak like you but you still taunted me with the curl of your tongue and the intonation of your voice. And I saw you slowly drifting away from me... back to that foreign planet of yours; my little ******* prince. And as I watched you leave me I saw delusions leaking from your brain as your eyes rolled back. But all they did was rain down on me.

This clock smokes a cigarette and tucks itself into the nest hidden inside of my jaw made from the sticks in my eyes and the branches in my brain. They act as a memento of all of my cherished and celebrated flaws. You know, the ones that to everyone else seem deep and emotional and artistic and cool, but to me seem just seem clinically insane. These branches are pawns from Fool’s Paradise calling to me—I can see them floating idly above my head like tiny taunting yellow birds from my memories. They try to make me forget whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing these doves from my nest into my heart. They flap their wings in my chest monotonously and obnoxiously; a tireless taunting heartbeat. You’re a modern desolate suicide with your heart filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides, poisoning all of my beautiful birds of Fool’s Paradise.

They’re teaching me to fly now, making me too exhausted to even lose it anymore, and too exhausted to think I can choose it. (“It” being the toxins making me dizzy and Ms. “Miss Me Please”. Pathetic.) This restless clock stays awake and is impassively beating a tragic ballad like a phantom of my pallid heart which silently screams. It’s foolish and hushed and timidly invalid. The rhythm paces past pit stops searching for the sound of silence but never stops to eat or for a pick-me-up when it’s lasted this long already. You’re a modern romantic suicide wringing out my heart with your rigid hands and hanging it out to dry.
Sometimes my heartbreak will abruptly brake and snarl at me like a moon exhausted at daybreak refusing to hold itself up for the world anymore. It’s as if it trips and stumbles across its own canvas in the sky, collapsing into my nest weighing me down into the deepest of these one-hundred thousand lakes of solitude, making me a drowning anchor at best, bringing the whole **** ship and crew down with me. It’s as if your shiny poisonous soul blasts my shaded nest with lasers from a science-fiction fantasy with all robots and no magic, and the necessary darkness needed for dreams begins to fade. Your sparkle is surfing and effortlessly riding the tsunami of my mind, unaware of the sharks with razor teeth made of my pathetic emotions. How are you so charming and rustic, and yet so piously unkind?

And I could tell you that you’re not alone yet, but you would never believe me. And I could tell  you you’re far too ******* yourself and too ******* me and too ******* us and the catastrophic hurricane we’d be lucky to be, but you would never want to believe me. I could tell you that you’ve got your heavy crown all tangled up in your hair filled with twigs and branches but I won’t because I know you won’t dare to care.

But it’s true, you’re not alone yet. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through or who you’ve been through or anything we’ve been through . It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen or who you’ve seen, these sentimental knives still seem to lacerate your brain, I know they have. I’ve acquired my fair share of daggers—please let me guide you through the pain or at least pretend to if you’ll let me. You’re not alone, although I know you wish you were. I’m sorry.

So leave me be when you’re not alone. Let’s both abandon me together so you can be alone. Give me your hands because you’re staggering on this uneven floor. Let me hold your struggling heart still because it’s beat is staggering. Let me be alone with you because you’re staggering… but I’m a chore.

Sometimes I feel like there is a balloon inside of my heart that is deliberately deflating to a point where my skin can’t stretch far enough to protect it anymore. Sometimes I feel like there a minuscule puncture in my heart that is so small that nobody can even see it. I wonder if I’m the growing void, or if the void is growing inside of me.

The delusion of you lurks in the corners of my brain and I’m so ashamed about it. It’s like you sleep in the underbelly of my eyelids that keep leaking because there is no more room for them without you living in there. It’s as if you made a puncture in my eyes so small that nobody can see it but they can see the streams that used to snuggle up in there.

You make me feel like I’m a speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill and spent on a pack of gum.

Like valleys in a desolate wasteland bear the skeletons of water
and the tundra is envious of the desert that's regrettably hotter,
these scars show where blood used to flow
and remember the life in a cave leaking tears down below.
My veins are an ardent irrigation system
That try to forget that I ever missed him, kissed him, and dissed him
and wish that I  had thrown a fist at him and ****** him off.
The life from my blood is putrid and lucid and trying to rid
itself of hidden embarrassment sleeping amid a bed of emotions about to burst.
Let it dampen your thirst and immerse itself in this sobbing flood.
I need a well to siphon all of my blood back into my veins
and to feel less insane and less hopefully vain,
you're the bane of my tears and the bane of my main fears.
Humanity is persisting with an impossible dream
that seems to tease me, tearing my seams and threatening the steams of my inner hot springs to bring this kingdom down into the ground remembering nothing.
Embezzling these dreams from the hopeless lovers and the luckless lovers and foolish and moronic and simple-minded lovers.
So wait with me for the monsoon of dust because I must not wait in solitude waiting for my crowded heart to spontaneously combust.
The darkness for once is a beacon, meek and a freakin' immature fawn
exulting in our fictitious devotion, crying from it's eyes
bathing in the tears crying from the skies,
and mourning through our veins and dreaming in the morning in pain.
I'm hosting a caucus for flirtation but you're the only one invited.
We're a landscape of brutal simplicity.

Although we endure our breaths in this this shack upon the shore,
The icebergs lurk before us clearer than ever before.
Dancing animatedly in our Siberian tundra,
like a hero taking selfish refuge before the storm.

I think we should try on these tiny snow shoes anyway
and swim through the snow that's buried us beneath our fragile beating sleigh.  
I keep putting my thumb on display,
exposing my heart to these wolves that transpire around us day by day.

I envy their silent and still tails
that rest quietly, sturdy and as deadly as nails.
My thoughts recognize an after party to hide my pain
that I only partake in to seem less insane.

So I coach my brain to copulate with my emotions
rather than with the hurricane motions of the ocean of your brain.
It all seems transparent to me now,
a ghost in my chest pounding to get out somehow.

This night is going backwards
as I entomb and eat all of my words.
We're not vigilant anymore
and I wish I wasn't aware of it anymore.
I shattered our animated screen
and am practicing remaining carefully unseen.
I'm grasping at loose strings with loose fists
and burying the things I've kissed and moments I've grievously missed.
I'm learning how to be detached
and to manage these vibrantly mundane daily tasks
and recognizing a resonantly unseemly girl
monitor my reflection which unfurls
into some unrecognizable mask
and I dress myself in a costume of a cloak
that's a joke to poke around at
but still clings to my body and to my memory like some ancient artifact.
How about that?
And is this all because you are weak?
No, I think it's because I am weak.
And so we attempt to refrain from our harrowing fumes.
Somehow you're inhaling our fumes,
detached in solitude somewhere on our atlas.
You're oblivious to the fact that I'm deflating to nothing.
But it's whatever.
It's nothing.

In a tragedy I'm collapsing from a canopy above me
falling onto a cobblestone platform beside you, fatally.
You remain dormant as I shriek at you and shove you
in an attempt to animate and awaken you.
And like before you have no passion for the golden stars
on your agenda that you persist on our own personal Mars.
Your delusions still follow narratives like a script
with fabrications that you wrote, reserving our crypt.

So now I melt into your back until we dream together in a morgue,
forced down by the weight of our cancerous lips in this cancer ward.
Nurses of alabaster and indigo serenade and encompass us
with cumbersome shovels cradling earth meant to bury us.
You tucked us into our tomb a little too soon
and now your blood runs cold as mine runs maroon.
I want to dig you up but you want us buried together beneath the moon.

I'm screaming and swearing and sullen and aching and laughing and sobbing and  apologizing.

This clock smokes a cigarette
     that tucks itself into my nest of a jaw
          acting as a memento of my most cherished flaw.
I can hear Fool's Paradise calling to me;
     it's hollow promises idle above me until I fail to remember
          whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing it's doves to me.
You're a modern desolate suicide
     with your insides filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides.

I'm too exhausted to lose it.
     and too inferior to choose it.
and the restless clock stays awake impassively with your ballad
     like a phantom of my pallid heart which feels eternally invalid.
I pace past pit stops but I never eat
     when I've lasted this long already.
You're a modern romantic suicide
     with a heart that has hung itself out to dry.

Sometimes my heartbreak brakes,
     snarling as it painstakingly falters like the moon at daybreak;
          stumbling across a canvas to its haunted nest
               and sleeping beneath these ten-thousand lakes.  
I won't let the shine blast my shade.
I won't let the darkness begin to fade.
I won't let the sparkle ride my mind.
You're so rustic and piously unkind.

Paramour, you're not abandoned yet.
You're scrutinizing yourself and you're far too unfair.
You've got your crown all tangled up
     and I wish I could make you care.

No Paramour, you haven't been abandoned yet.
It doesn't matter all you've endured.
It doesn't matter all you've observed;
     sentimental daggers still seem to lacerate your brain.
I've acquired my fair share of knives,
     I'll guide you through the pain.
You're not abandoned.

So abandon me when you're not alone.
Let's abandon me so you're not alone.
Give me your fists because you're staggering.
Let me hold you still because you're staggering.

I can feel the balloon inside of me deflating deliberately
     as if there is a minuscule puncture in its underbelly that no one can regard.
I feel like I am the growing void
     and also that the void is growing within me.

Your silent delusion lurks in the corners of my brain and I am so ashamed.
You abide in the underbelly of my eyelids
     that are leaking deliberately as if there's a minuscule puncture where no             one can regard it.

I'm that speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill
     and spent on a pack of gum.

Thanks for the game.

Hovering;
      Encompassing;

With a chest that has
      endured twenty-four years
             of ambiguity,

I am rooted  
      beneath the landscape
           of my integrity.

Hearkening whispers that remind me of footsteps;
awaiting them to be yours---
I'm ashamed, defeated on all fours.
I'm crestfallen because I'm certain
     that I am devastatingly unsound---
            nose stuck to the ground.

I have a mood indigo so abiding it's embarrassing.
My heart is colliding and subsiding to this pain.
I hear one tick and imagine that it's the lights;
      a plight to know this night hasn't died---
           but it never is one.
I'm pretending its all a burlesque
      but repressing the truth that it never is that picturesque.

It's never a picture show.

I dream unsoundly,
and now my world is despondent and unsoundly.
Here I stand, invisible and indigo.
I've been indigo since "my baby said goodbye."
I'd call myself Ivonne
     but nobody would even care to know.

Frivolously toss a grain of sand into my heart
and watch it tear me through the pavement.

Don't awaken me to my failures
for they're my most dependable friends.
They never forsake me;
my baneful lovers until the end.

They're the sun that blinds me as it hovers
and abandons me in the twilight.
Why is it that the sun will always go down on me
but you never will anymore?

This is my ode to severence
so severe that I will bleed out
if you extract yourself from my chest.
So sleep there and keep me arduously alive.

I've been to every surgeon of a lover that loves to cut,
and none of them can fix this breach in me.
So I stuff it with rambunctuous patterns and accessories.
I wanted you to be a ravishing accessory for me,
but you're only an accessory to my spirit's assassination.

The coronet of my history still carves a hole in my brain.
With this hole in my chest
and this hole in my brain,
I feel eternally chained to the pain.

It's as if you pierce me just to see if I still can feel.
I can tell you without proof that it's the only thing that's real.

So now my molten emotions have erupted;
evanescing everyone I know away.
I'm lava that not a soul can caress.
It's not a fun game anymore.
I don't want to play anymore.

Tired of feeling like I'm ******* deranged.
They used to cheer my name,
now they whisper it,
as if my maudlin disease is contagious.

I wish I was the hero of my own epic,
but I was drafted into a tragedy
patiently awaiting my somber ending
that seems to never want to visit me.

He told me, "Pretty girls don't light their own cigarettes."

He hands me his lighter now.

You've serenaded me into a comotose slumber.
I'm continuously sensing lullabies whilst paralyzed.
I'm too terrified to speak; too timid to even mumble.
Your intonation is so soothing; a banshee in disguise.

I'm stuck asleep in this in-pain asylum built of thorns.
Dreaming of the agenda I've never been capable of.
So turn the lights out in the tornado haven in my insane and in-pain brain,
and never admonish the fact that this pain is a continuous refrain.

The fires of my desires are cornered and defeated,
smouldering beneath the timber of my emotions.
I know you could never be lighter fluid for me,
but with our incandescent splendor blown out we can still go blindly through the motions.

My reveries never used to be this empty, and now they're becoming hollow with my conscience;
and these hollow empty chances are drying out as I continue to discouragingly pursue you.

You'll never envisage your face as I see it, and you'll never envisage why this bliss makes me weap.
I'll never have the most alluring face to you,
and my cold shoulder only monotonously lulls you peacefully to sleep.

And now it's to everyone's amusement that I can't manipulate my liquor anymore.
I'm so messy hahahahahahahaha.
So they prevail, standing as if they're boulders upon my shoulders,
compressing my heart deep into my intestines.

So now my love is growing slender
as yours becomes a pretender
and my whispy love surrenders as I surrender to this alcoholic ******.

The grains of my affinity rest in your palm and you spread your fingers and let them fall.
I could beseech you to clench your fist, but I won't.

I'm your lover you don't have to love
as my heart is left hanging above.
It's high and dry;
too weak and too shy.
So tie me to this clothes line
and hang me out to dry.

Remembering that water's in the clouds,
I'm suddenly drenched in their tears.
My head is always in the clouds
sleeping and drowning in all of my drenched fears.

I yearn for my insides to stop embarrassing me eternally
because feelings are so out of season,
and not in the vintage retro cool kind of way.

Everything I compose is a duet
but my shadow, though it can emulate me,
can't embrace me like you can.
My shadow and I can't surrender into each other
like my late partner.

Who am I going to wander with in the frigid rain?
and who am I going to share this hideaway with
that's nested in my frigid brain?

I keep guiding these invisible spectacles in my head
like a ghostly shepherd,
and perform them for my imaginary phantom inamorata
igniting and burning my ethereal phoenix bird.

and so I'll linger here helpless and conquered
longing for someone to hearken my silent
high pitched banshee shriek,
which continues to remain unheard.

Feel like a raindrop in an ocean,
just a teardrop in a dragon's eye.
Just an ant in a sand hill
scurrying from gargantuan shoes and haunting lies

And so I'll hideaway and bide my time
until it's gone and I evaporate
because these great expectations
will forever be far too great.

This is familiar ground I stand on.
This is familiar ground I fall to my knees on.
This is familiar ground I sleep upon.
This is familiar ground I'm buried beneath.

So I'm waiting for someone to say something.
I'm waiting for someone to stop asking me,
"Are you okay, miss?"
as if it makes a difference.

You've fooled me once, you've fooled me twice
you've fooled me thrice
you've fooled me everlastingly.
I'm a dazed and gullible fool.
You're the jester; I just wish the joke was on you.

Forever only a lady
and never anyone's rose to tame.
I long to be the rose just this once, maybe.
Please. Tame me.

So I stuff the holes in my chest with neon lights
and curled up currency and healthy pours
as my viscera seeps out my unhealthy pores
making muddled puddles on these many ***** floors.

and your attention lacerates me like a disembowelment
but my it's my affection that  is the Hari-Kari
while your schizophrenic agenda is the knife.
Together we're a daily ritual suicide.

I never knew we were born to die
because I've been forever blind.
Thought you could be my lucky cricket
until my heart ended up dead on the roadside.

So sing my neglected soul to sleep.
May it rest peacefully in pieces
while my severed heart wanders aimlessly.

Forever waiting for my decrepit friend
with my heart nailing my spine to the earth.
I need this Cimmerian Shade to remind me
that this isn't how things determinedly end.

...and I read the news and still feel uncomfortably serene,
despite the dead heroes and all the entitled people.
There's no luck anymore, just a fistful of my abysmal choices,
and I'm kidding myself if I think I haven't always been the antagonist of this epic journey.

...and all I challenge you is to come over and waste some life with me
and to blindfold me from your behavior like a child that's convinced of unicorns.

...and my cheeks smolder with my incinerating charcoal soul.
I suffer as I admit my desires and my charcoal soul will continue blistering until its substance is melted and twisted like wax.

...and I was captured in a landslide that only I can palpate,
curious as why nothing has seen me being removed ever so slowly,
like it's my undying fate.

I'm summoning everybody I know and everybody I don't,
to the races to see how fast I can run with my wounded spirit.

Place your bets.
Beat the odds.
Get lucky

There's plenty of fish in the sea,
but what about the bad ones?
I feel like my skin is made of wool
and I'm always Yoshimi battling the robots,
but maybe the Yoshimis are battling me.

And I've always hated gospel
but it's the most honest shitlist I've read;
and I feel like my mind love to play tricks on me,
like my own personal sugar daddy.
It's my zombie friend that constantly lies to me.

The bells in my brain keep ringing "rill rill rill"
like the disorderly dreams they know best
and I can always feel the knife tickling me until it hurts like
"Why don't you come to my party, Valerie?"
but I always end up alone by the woodpile out back
wishing for the past black out days.

These emotions spread like wildfire
miles away to the sea-saw I once admired from the ground
never getting higher.
And I've always been a two-headed girl but never a friend
and although I know it's a man's man's man's world
I know it now more than ever.
and every single night I morph more and more more
into Mrs. Robinson and I'm more and more and more
terrified every single **** mother ******* day.

I've had my one-life stand
and I'm settling for being confronted with my failures
though I have not confronted them.

And although every one else can enjoy swimming against the current I can't help but be the one breathing under water that ruins the trip to the lake.
What do I mean?

I never know.

I just want to be the king in a purple robe of velvet and satin asleep on a throne but I'm stuck asleep at my own feet waiting for someone to poke me
until it hurts.

In the end of it all I never try to search for answers to the riddle anymore,
and the same songs will always find a way to play,
unlike me.
How do they manage it?

I'm weak and already sleeping in the ground.

A.D.H.T isn't special anymore and neither is Vitiligo,
just like diabetes isn't anymore and neither is cancer or tumors
or depression or anxiety
anymore.

We're just here not appreciating each other like everybody else.

Every thought is a chemical imbalance in the brain
and everybody's insane.

and the bottom layer, against my bones knows
that it's been a long time since I've anxiously awaited someone's response.

I always drop off,
maybe I jump.
All I know is that my cheek is forever grazing the pavement.

I never know if I jump or if I'm pushed.

Maybe because I can't feel anything all anymore.

and the harmless always skewer me with their words or
with their silent hearts.

and I try to decide if the red water I see is always blood
or if I'm just dreaming all the time.

It's been awhile since I've met a human that's not a stranger.
I'm forever a stranger.
I'm stranger than I even understand.

My necklace is a rope,
and my pendant-- my boulder heart.
It snaps the nape of of my tired neck
while my knees quiver stubbornly, locked and trembling,
until they give way with my hollow spine.

A paralyzed portrait on the petrified pavement,
people walk all over me,
careful not to step on the cracks that engrave my porcelain corpse,
oozing out rivers into the soles of their soulless feet.

And now with my fragile frame and my heavy heart I wait
for the world to crash down beside me
and the debris from the wreckage to cover me
from the tepid breeze of the storm staring me down.

I've always remained in dichotomy
while other souls remained in the universe.

I've always had two,
but not because I had to.
things have always just happened in twos
while other souls remained in a world of waltzes and triplets
without ever capitalizing or utilizing any of it.
Rather they capitalize and utilize all the means to disguise the lies they use to hypnotize the tiny guys under their gargantuan feet.

I've always exercised contingency like its some type of emergency.
but my options are all always only heads or tails.
Let me *** your di so my options aren't just to live or die.
Because until sharing is caring we will never prevail.

I'm restlessly creating calamity,
creating comedy through my restless tragedy,
and unless your majesty dismisses me from my mission of creating maladies I'll never create the melody in which my face yearns to sing, and I'll continue super-imposing the many faces I have, never fathoming if my face is nothing but a window dressing,
messing up its potential to be sunkissed,
dismissed by any opportunity my hands have of discovering if my face is upside down or backwards or fits right at all.
But it has managed to adapt, obstructing my view...
bringing the dimensions of distance and all the backs in front of me into focus.

There are no faces in back of me
no faces facing me
only backs in front of me
and my back is to the wall.

They're attracted to me,
heels first
cheek scraping against the gravel.

Sometimes I see the world as if I were a tower.
Not looking down on things, for I have no chin,
and not seeing the things below at all.
My eyes are the tallest story windows
and no people can upset me
all I see are the clouds and the birds and
the other tower people gazing mindlessly.

Ain't got no one,
and I could tell you
that I don't need anyone,

but I'd be lying.

Giving into the surfaces
allowing them to support me.

I'm sliding down
and leaning upon
and collapsed.

I'm the un-proud owner of a melody
that perpetually brings me to my dead end;
and my spirit has left without me
and I'm too sluggish to grasp it again.

It knew I'm a fool with a dream
that's far bigger than me;
and you ran away with my spirit
because it needs nothing from you,
unlike me;
and you ran away with my dream
when you could have stayed with me.

I love the people when
the people don't love me.

And the worst part is
I have nothing to dress up for anymore
but I keep overflowing my closet
more and more.

When I was a kid I had dreams I was being attacked by flowers.
I had dreams.
I had dreams.
I had dreams.
When I was a kid I had dreams I was being attacked.

What is it?
Wouldn't you like to know?
Well, I'm not going to tell you because I like to be mysterious.

Numbers mean nothing to me and neither does tomorrow.
Tomorrow's always new to me and I'm always unprepared for it.
But that's spontaneity isn't it?
and I've always wanted to be an anomoly.
It's always new.
It's a new day...
tomorrow.

I was dipping my toe in water that didn't have a temperature. There was a string choking my joints between my toes and where my foot began. It was a weight with a heartbeat. It was alive and pulling me under. And then the weight moved through my body and into my chest and I couldn't breathe... but I wasn't suffocating either.
I could sense black shadows all around me and I could feel my body twisting and contorting itself against them.
Black shadows.
Black shadows.
Can you sense the black shadows?
They live your closet, you know.

Colors mean nothing to me either.
And now the colors are colder and cooler and I'm from a different place.
And all these places I've been:
All the restaurants
the bathrooms
through the doors and windows
to church that one time;
they don't seem important anymore.

And they said it was all my fault knowing it wasn't at all.
They're evil
and selfish
and victims of all the paper filling up their ugly paper hearts.

When I was a kid I had dreams I was being attacked by flowers.
I had dreams.
I had dreams.
I have dreams.
I still have dreams.
I still have dreams I'm being attacked.

I can still feel energy in us,
it's pumping my blood.
I'm not tired yet.

But if your energy pumps my blood
away from us and onto the shore,
I can't stop it without creating a hurricane.

So lay yourself to rest on the beach.
Let your mind rest, too.
Forget about me.
Wade in the water when your ready.

I know you prefer the crashing water
when it's closer to your ankles,
I just wish you could hold your breath long enough
to swim through the depths of my non-rushing blood.

I speak with the silence that listens to the woes of all things,
wishing I could live one day in it's heavy life,
whispering in it's ear, "I want you."
And I wish all this silent liquor could be champagne,
but my hands know I don't deserve that sort of luxury,
and I wish my gambling was done at the races,
rather than at this blurry basement fold-out table,
but my barren heart does not deserve that sort of luxury.

And I know,
Who knows? Who cares?
And I know,
that this is all embarrassing for me.
I know. Who cares?

And now that the air does not hurt my face anymore,
I can't hide under layers of wrapping.
Let me put on a show for you,
even if you miss the whole performance.
Let me prepare a show for you,
so I can hideaway in a spotlight.

We are walking on familiar ground
in an unfamiliar climate.
We have done this before,
and it'll be the same beneath a burning sun.
I know. Who cares?

And I've given up the sky raining lavender,
and I've settled for being a weekend lover,
and I've settled for being only one type of friend.
Oh! darling, tell me if the sky cries purple for you.

I've been holding this knife against your flesh
for some time now, and you've never been able to feel it.
And finally, I put the pressure on the soft side
and was shocked to see that you bleed my type of indigo.

If only we had fallen and scraped our knees on the pavement together
and I could have seen that you're made of invisible indigo,
then I could have seen that our blood was born to bleed brown together.

So leave me be to lie awake,
wishing for sleep.
So leave me be in this shelter
that I thought would be my healer.
So leave it be to collapse on me,
keeping me warm.

And I ask that I get what I want for just this time,
when I know that good things don't happen to those
who believe that guilt is a small price to pay for happiness.

And now I lie awake thinking about all the people I know
that will die someday.
And all the ugly things that make this world beautiful,
And all the ugly toxins making my body and mind feel beautiful,
and how they could **** me someday if they wanted to.

These days I settle for lovers I don't have to love,
these days I know I couldn't if I wanted to.

I never had an interesting cover
and the title on my spine is old and peeling
and people don't publish reviews about me anymore.

I wish I had the reassurance that they were always right behind me.
But I let them go, as they planted their feet into the ground.
I left part of my body attached as the wind pulled me forward,
and now I am sluggish and un-whole.

I let him go tonight and the wind only blows towards tomorrow.

I've always sensed the scent
coming from down under.
It's the green goo creeping under the door
from my animated adolescent nightmares.

And I'm back to my adolescent ways these days,
yelling in a whisper at my face in the mirror.
Yelling at a the beloved shadow that goes unnoticed.

And if I'm covering up my lies with feelings,
and I'm covering up my organs with skin,
then why am I not covering up my skin?

And I'm covering up my life in a blanket with far too many holes.
but it is still able to protect the boney parts of my body
where my skin is too thin.

Leeching to a dependent,
I've never been cured by the cold.

I hear the planes flap their wings
and long for them to let me fly
away with them.

"I don't actually own him,
but we're together all the time
so I guess we're friends."

And I'm taking a bath while
I'm still clean,
to burn the follicles off my
creasing forehead.

A walking corpse, undead amongst a society of necrophiliacs.

All this time I've thought
that I miss my old friends.

Now I realize,
I just miss the feeling
of having friends.

The sterling stream that lines my sorrows
is never within stone's throw.
How many boulders away are you, my darling?
I yearn for you to grind my heart once more.
I need you to clip it's thoughtless wings,
for they're drooping and defeated by their lasting migration.

My heart is elephantine and my wings are hopeless
and they're abusing all of me for what is believably my eternity.  
My heart is dehydrated and cotton-mouthed,
It's tongue can not satisfy, for it's fangs are before it,
serrated by the bloodshed on our floor.
I could water my floral heart,
if someone put the watering-can in my hand,
but it doesn't know how to tread tears anymore anyway.

I am not satisfied.
Nor, can I satisfy
anymore.

I'm simply coasting through shapes and figures
to pass this paused time.
I have become a clown
that does not understand mortification any longer.
It's feelings have become hidden under a white face and red lips.

My tower of prospect has been thrown to the ground,
landing where my body was planted, stuck asleep.

They all say I deserve better.
I've been searching for better,
but it broke my wings and it broke my heart
and planted me at my own crime scene
******* me.

We're a tragic
kind of magic.

My bag of bones
is undead,
but only for you.

Pulsing without a brain,
it creates movement of passion.

My bag of bones
is a zombie
that I cannot control.

...and then they fell in love.
     they say that as if they were running errands.

I have to cease.
It's not that my love has ceased.
It's just that the tenderness in my chest isn't uncut anymore
and I keep cutting the scraps loose far and wide
creating an eyesore for others to sterilize.

This has to cease
because I've put my spirit on trial
and it wound up at its breaking point.
I can't share this world with you
while her shadow lingers, panting on your collar.

I know you can't cease.
I know you can't slay a phantom.
I know that you don't fancy bruising her haunting spirit.

I wish you didn't want to bruise my spirit.
But there's an echelon of interest that I never dominated.

But it possesses all the arena that is my cranium
and the rest is made up of intoxicated words I'll never obliterate.

I know I'm not your Valentine.
But hearts were never a joyous emblem for me anyway.

So I'll leave phantoms of my presence all over your life
in hopes that you'll delete a single blushing gummy letter
written by a ghost years ago.

A place built for two with an eternally vacant cushion.

Battle your venomous creatures as I preach to the preacher creatures.

I look at the sky though my heart's been put to rest below the earth,
along with my conscience--- waiting for it's promised rebirth.

I know about forgiveness and how it's impossible to forget.
I know about mistakes, but somehow it's impossible to regret.

These are the days when my head can't find the clouds
and my batting lashes can't even black out my troubles anymore.

The pulsing of a tired brain
     and the sleepiness
          of a foreign language
          from a green and red city.

Passing the time to forget
     that time passes.

I am my own nemesis---
     the enemy, the villain, the darkness.

I need to conquer my evils
     and put to rest my poisonous lips.

Don't swallow my forbidden saliva.
     It's deadly, though it doesn't want to be.

Forgive me and then ****** me.

Outlive me and shine bright black.