Everyday feels like a constant s t r u g g l e
A little girl washed out in the w
                                                     a
                                                        v
     ­                                                     e
          ­                                                    s
And everyday she tries to keep her head up
She gets pulled deeper to her grave
Her silent screams can't be heard
She is a slave of the sea
And maybe when she drowns
Everyone can see what is wrong with me.

You spin a lovely story
A web made out of silk
Full of fictitious behavior
But
Do you ever feel the guilt?
Do you ever see the blood, or the tears that you have spilt?
You feed off happiness
And leave people alone in the blackness
You are your own fears
And my very worst nightmare..

i long to live quietly inside a hurricane
whirring thru a dingy tralier park in
an alternate world where my young pink
heart hasn't been reduced to live
under the floor pedal of your mother's
foot powered sewing machine
in the forgotten attic -- a surrogate
universe in which my name
became more than
a delicate vocabulary
flicked easily away
from your tongue

How old are we all, really?
All the years you spent playing catch up.
Running with your broken legs.
More sinister than it seems.
No patrol, no not today sir.

Dead hair in sink drains.

I forgot everything I ever learned at 14.
Fell down the rabbit hole.
Ivy clinging to houses, pulling down walls.
You're pushing up daisies, at least last time I heard.
Somewhere your mother cries and the bells begin to toll.

Blowing old dandelions out,
trying to cash my expired wishes and bring you back.

Wonder how old you were the first time you died.
I was 7.
12.
14.
After that, 16.
Ask me again tomorrow.

Drowning in bathtubs.
Falling out of nests.
Our baby bird wings weren't ready yet.

Cutting your hair at night, rainbows blooming.
Empty train stations with bricks as our luggage.
Nothing left to dream of.
Green water spilling out from beneath the potted plants.
Life is a domino effect.

I've been living in shades
since the day they buried me in robins egg blue.
All I'm really trying to tell you is babe,

I miss you.

Ever loved someone like
laying on the carpet in pain
watch the shadows on their face change
see the door open and close
these days the sunlight always looks the same

I knew a dangerous man.
You wouldn't know what he was.
But I could see the tight clench of broken fists.
The ****** tape carelessly wrapped around the
bleeding breaks in his hardened knuckles.
A murderers kiss is a rush.
It is a pool of water so hot it feels cold.
When was the last time you kissed someone
so passionately it caused your hair to stand on end?
It caused a chill down your spine- quick and ruthless.
I wasn't scared of dark eyes or dark mouths or dark hearts.
I wasn't scared of a bullet or a gun or an ******
that starts with a rope and a whip and
ends with bruises and my body pressing into broken drywall.
I smile at the danger in the threat.
Our intensity crumbled our surroundings.
We were the flash. The flame.
He was the thrill, I was the ******.
Have you ever wondered what hell was like?
People don't speak of the days they spend there.
They don't talk about the tortured memories that keep them awake.
A smoky afternoon and broken glass.
Cigarettes flung out the window with your decency.
Mangled innocence is okay as long as you
keep it contained enough to sweep out of the room after you're done.
Eyes like a black hole. Shaking desires.
And when he says beg, you close your eyes and feel the fire.
Have you ever loved a wild man?
Have you made him moan in the dead of night?
Have you ever been a pane of glass?
Have you ever had a brick thrown through you and been alright?
Have you ever known a bleeding devil and made his bed your home?
Have you licked his blood and tasted your doom?

Prepare for the ache, memorize the thin miles of blue green vein under your skin so you can chart the ebb and flow of potential bruises.
Victim. Masked girl, see how she flies. Falls. Dies.
Watch her make love letters in blue curls, blue dress, forget me nots, loves me yes.
Watch her play house, but never a mother. Watch her play brother, uncle.
Sundown. Sky grows darker with the grime of the underground. Cheap powder, high relief.
Glitter stills in the air, hanging on to dust motes. High jack.
Sometimes her knife slips. At noon, all doom. Darkened laughter. Because injustice. Because woman. Because even molten lava cools. Because razor blades. Because her seams are tailored, but not well. Hiding a secret, but never well. Because no door bell, no peep hole. Blind faith. Fate?
She played the death games with dangerous men and she didn't win. But oh, she didn't lose. Never lost. Just bit off more than she could chew. So she swallowed hard and waited for the hurt. The bleeding. Pain, she knows that old sting. Not quite a familiar friend but something nostalgic.
Watches the red blossom purple like her skin is spring.
The day has lost its luster. Lighting birthday candles, hoping one of these expired wishes will catch flame and spark. It's happened once before. The time she saw hell wallpapered in shades of peeling yellow.
Likes to play detective, fancies herself a good liar. Poker face of gloom.
No reason for polite, for stare, for hands shaking over hidden knowledge.
She is awaiting the burn. Summons strength. Face twisted into a smile pulled by string. Puppet, watch me dance. Show time. Red velvet knees and stained glass shadowed pages. Because ink dries faster than salt confessions.
Because uncle brother and mother are no longer child's play. Rosary choke-chains. Mary was never her savior, tell us, Pope: where was god? I know demon, I know devil. I know pomegranate and mother. I no longer play daughter, I graduated to something more. Silver screen harlot. She's got big, big dreams for a bedroom starlet.
Submerged in the toxicity of blue daytime. Remember when you wanted to make it big? Before your skin became scar and bandage, before you sacrificed body in hopes of keeping your soul?
Poor ******. Poor half-girl. Poor daydreamer, star wisher.
Burned alive, the headlines said. No one read the story, thought char and bone were enough. Didn't read the follow up, didn't read about the missing teeth after the third day. Can't be bothered with the Phoenix, didn't want to realize there is a creature empty enough to poke holes in her brain to let the sun in.
Some wanted fire. She bathed in kerosene. Carried matches behind her eyes.
Not slaughter, sacrifice.
They call her myth.
They call her live wire.
They call her contagious.
They check for symptoms.
They say her demise was a vaccine.

insanity isn't beautiful
insanity isn't poetic
insanity isn't heartless
insanity isn't optional

the core of your being
slowly disintegrating into a continous abyss
is not dainty or flowery or romantic
it is pain and suffocation
it is not glass bottles of pills
or poems by willowy girls

insanity is staring with eyes glazed
and it is thoughts and thoughts and thoughts
it is not a choice
or wanting to be the devil
it is disgusting and burdening
it is not knives or guns
or ****** sprees

words run like a river
from corners of my lips
they run into rocks and trees
of the people before me
but they're just people
they do not understand
the whispering words of a river
all they hear is the constant mumbling
and incoherent cries