There are words lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment of vengeance. The moment to allow Karma back into my life to punish me at the hands of my love. Eyes of familiarity stare as I walk alone and vulnerable. I tremble.
A life like rain, like deer. Like weeds in a driveway. Clouds in the night. An underground volcano. A crumbling book with a breaking seam. An empty skull.

Banks of memories crashing into waves of time, diminished into the soaked ashes of their brothers and sisters.
The pewter world stops on its axis with one step upon its ground. One foot tapping on the earth creates a rhythm for the living ghosts to walk along to. Robotic limbs move with the master puppeteer–

powerless.

As children sing, children cry, people die.
Alone, alone, alone.

Leaves touch gently the snow, freezing water spreading like a virus over the cells and branches of each tree.
The blinding Sun gets blinded by winter clouds and suddenly we’re in a long distance relationship.
A head without light becomes unknown and all.
Foot by foot they march to the sea, invisible hands making chains to resist the wind trying to force them down.
The sand feels like cotton candy to some, thorns to others.
But year after year, they are left to sit upon the rocks as lifeless as each, and watch their waves dissipate into an ocean of nothingness.

People places and things, all fit into categories.
Her her her, my head is filled with allegories.

My heart is a rose.
Petal after petal…
I drop.

I love her.
I love her not.
I love her.
I love her not.

Through the leaves they pluck.

Thorn one; there one goes.
Thorn two; another one froze.

Maybe I have too many thickets.
Maybe I am too pungent.

Maybe they’re allergic.
Maybe they just hate roses.

I have yet to find the one
That will never be done

With me.

Be done with me.

Have I made a mistake by wishing for normality?

Am I wishing to be a lily when in fact I am not?

Thorns in my heart, thorns in my head.
I don’t think they’ll stop ‘till I’m dead.

Poison flows like the Atlantic.
I need help I’m getting frantic.

Another girl, another day.

Another day some part of me leaves.
I do not know what is missing from me.

But I feel like a maze.

A maze of thorns.

When I turn left and go too far
I get pricked.

When I turn right and go too far
I get pricked.

When I go in any direction too far
I get pricked.

I’m traveling blind and I just want to

Be picked.

Want to be picked.

You approach the van and you hear your mother. You hear your father, your brother, your grandmother, and every other person that has ever wanted you to succeed. The tinted windows shut out your vision of what’s yet to come. A lullaby hums in the background, drawing you nearer and nearer. Bees are in your head. Dig them out. Pull out your insides and sprawl them out in his hand. It’s what he wants. And you want him.
You come to caged in the basement of a bookstore and your first thought is, Oh, I didn’t know he read. Your hands are tied to your waist and your hair is done up the way he likes. You’re wearing the dress. He knows about the dress. He combs your hair and spits in your face; it’s salty. He smells like love and sanity and a dark, dark vanilla. You know, he put it on just for you. He did all of this for you. For you.
He takes your hand and guides you to the *** where you’ll have to **** for the rest of your life. He gave you a matching throw pillow and blanket, the color of the pile of bile slumping next to you. There’s a body attached and he tells you his name is George. George was our friend. But George didn’t like him, so now he’s dead to us. George wanted to take me away from him, so now he’s dead to us. Now he’s d e a d.
As you’re cradled in the arms of your demon you think about missing the quiet nights reading blank pages and sipping on empty tea. He guides the thoughts out of your head with the pair of shears he keeps in his back pocket. Just in case.
At night you’re plugged into an IV that drains the red and replaces it with a navy violet. You bleed what he wants you to bleed. He hooks up your nerves to a computer so he can play them like a sound pad. He turns your moans into verses and choruses that haunt your dreams. What even is sound?
You fight your way to the forbidden mirror, (the first thing you’ve done without his permission), and see an old lady staring back at you. Bruised.
He got you.