I tend to imagine myself, 15 years from now,
Being one of those sad people you see
In the corner of cafés,
Pouring whisky into their coffee,
pathetic,
Drained.
Bags drooping from their eyes,
Adding another 20 years
to their tarnished appearance.
In some low income career,
No friends,
No livelihood.
Just themselves and a dingy apartment,
Cigarette butts scattered
From an overturned ashtray.
What sad expectations,
I set for myself.

I long for darkened dawns followed by lustrous fingers,
the caffeine in your blood, the ripe plum of your veins.
I am the aching limbs and tiger-striped hips,
cracked lips in welcome of lover’s touch.

Because words
meant nothing to us,
only when we touched
would we become immersed
in each other,
only when subtle breath
would escape us,
and only when we join
do we become euphoric.

Drunk in atmosphere,
loaded with ecstasy,
you were the guide
to every movement,
my eyes
with prickling fingertips.
"Be mine"
I whisper.

You held a damaged girl
in your arms,
only to let her fall
and shatter to pieces.

I’ll ring you late,
about ten.
“sure”
you’ll say
and we meet
at the coffee shop,
old,
wallpaper peeled
on each side,
but my favourite.

One,
two coffees,
soy latte for me,
mocha for yourself.
We wander down
abandoned roads
unsure of the destination,
but sure of ourselves,
as we are lost
in conversation.

Cigarette smoke
in air,
and heartbeat quickened,
i feel my love
for you grow.
Yet how can I love
when it is not returned?
Why am i stuck
to my emotions,
grounded by will?

Heartbeat is racing now.
I want to kiss you,
hold you,
the air is cold
and I wish to be warmed
by you,
and only you.

Tamper me
and play with my bones,
hold my lungs
to help my breath escape me,
run your fingers
along my veins,
and watch as a soft plum tone
arises from my skin.
Revel in my eyes
as they watch you dance,
gaze upon me,
and create me.
I am nothing but a puppet,
and you
the master of my strings.

Cut me open, dissect my thoughts and dismember my hopes. The windows are opening to reveal myself to you, so open me. Breathe me, inhale my memories, ******* future. I am nothing but what you make of me, I am only a half ready to be a whole. Tell me you know me, now that I am here, lying open and ****** at your feet.

I am.
I am a seeker,
constantly grasping for knowledge
and wading through cluttered
pools of  thoughts.

I am a lover,
with every soft smoothing of fingertips
sending a rattle through my vertebrae,
and bring my heart
to a droning rumble.

I am the isolation,
the silence heard between the cracks
in the walls,
the listener of sounds
unable to be heard by human ear.

I am the wanderer,
floating among the pathways,
my sight only a reflection
of the beauty around me.

I am the girl,
the aspiring writer,
the owner of a fractured past,
the individual.

Beautiful yet horrifying,
running but never stopping,
I am.

I do not like being alone on these nights,
I cannot sleep,
and I cannot fight
the constant battles
that dance with a malevolent
waltz around my mind.

She held his palms,
rough against the cool air
passing through small gaps of skin.
She breathed the frost
through her rasping throat,
curling it with her tongue
as it left her lips.
He watched her with intent,
his eyes unable to leave her.
They moved with each other
under the dim street lamps,
their mitten covered hands
bound tightly to one another.
Finally,
she managed to mumble those words,
so soft and sweet
as they wafted into the night sky,
filling the stars with a drunken glow
in their deepened atmosphere.
Finally,
he was able to receive them,
take them in
and feel his bones rattle,
his heart race,
and his mind pulse.
They were in love,
wandering on a bitter December,
unable to comprehend the enormity
of what they had tumbled to.

I recoiled
from under the sheets,
turned to your face
so lulled in sleep,
the man that I had committed
the deepest sin to,
now showing such innocence.

I reached for a cigarette,
cloth falling away
exposed goosebumps to bare skin,
and I listen to the silence
of the empty room.

How I had longed
for that innocence you possess
while you slept.

Although four years above me
you contained the mind
of a child,
and I
the mind of a woman.

I listened to the soft roll
of the gears in the elevator,
the girl we had just met
baring a smile,
"So you're the boy I hear
all the stories about?"

He replied with a smile and nod
as if it had not bothered him,
his reputation
the source of his pride
rather than a subject of disgust.

Now she turns to me
as I can feel my chest
grow tight,
"And you're still with him?"
she asks
with a bat of her eyelids.

I give out a fake laugh
and that was all,
for the girl we had just met
had said to me
what I had been avoiding,
the one fault
in the boy that I had loved.

"I feel sick"
"Go lie down for a bit"
"I'm not sick physically"

I wanted at that moment,
to touch my lips to yours
as we sat so close,
yet I stayed
with my nose dug deep
into the nape of your neck
and let my tears streak
on your skin
as you bound me so tightly
to your chest.

And it’s on these late nights
that I feel most compelled
to want to lay down
next to your face
and watch as your eyes,
so piercing under dim lights,
draw patterns deep in to my skin.

I expect it to be like I see in films,
that I would be able
to call you
tell you I am so alone,
and within minutes
hear you knocking at my door,
only to press me against a wall,
your lips tracing patterns
along my neck,
and down my chest.
Have our bodies
create words,
apologies,
our mouths were unable to evoke.

I am your showgirl,
the pretty one
with a sleigh-bell laugh,
whom spoke only when spoken to.

I am your accessory,
arms around my waist,
to add to an image
already destroyed by reputation.

I am the prize,
the trophy,
the girl you have touched
and the one you have kept.

I am your girl you rung
the morning after,
your selfish pleasure,
the first call
when you're in need of satisfaction.

I am your object,
your porcelain doll
with moon-shaped eyes,
you keep in a cabinet
for all to admire.

As not only was i beautiful
in your eyes,
but also possessed
a public attraction
worth using for yourself.

Slowly,
she becomes smaller and smaller,
bones beginning to **** the surface of her skin.

There was a house,
walls touching mine
with cracked wooden planks
for walls.

They were a bright blue
torn and withered,
so full with age.

Workmen gathered around the front,
hoping to tear the turquoise
and the teal chipped wood.

Two friends and I
one small and soft,
the other loud

Scrambling over the fence,
so as not to be seen
although we were alone

And in the house
we lay,
smoking cigarettes
and watching the smoke
curl above us.

So untamed it was,
wild and running,
splitting as drops of rain
leaked from the cracks
in the ceiling.

The sound of our laughter
had filled the house
with more emotion
than I had ever heard.

This was the best day of my life
as we filled a once silent house,
with the drunken atmosphere
of our youth.

I love bones.
I love skin.
I love lungs,
how they make a chest rise
as a person inhales.
        I love dawn
I love running
as I pass through mist
on cold mornings.
        I love coffee late at night
with a cigarette.
       I love the little things
that people do,
such as how they move
or how they touch.
       I love knowing I'm alone
consumed by silence
and the air is filled
with conscious thought.
       I love dark things,
creepy things,
****** up fairy tales
and beauty in the most hideous
of creatures.
       I love the colour grey,
I love when it rains in the city
and every man that passes
is cloaked in dark trenchcoats.
       But mostly,
I love waking up
when you sleep so softly
and innocently
next to me,
and I feel
that everything is safe.

And under the stars, the first time we touched, I gave myself to you.

Unknown to what was present, we acted on the binding impulse of energy written from hopeful thoughts and clouded states of mind.

You were the drug and I, your victim; every word evoked seeping like a poison through my skin. You, the smoke to my lungs, addictive and screaming the very meaning of pleasure.

You were the minx, the temptress, my master and obsession. The feelings of guilt overridden by lust and passion, I was unable to hold a single breath.

But my love, my nymphette, how brightly you shone. What are morals when the heart leaps forth?

Reflecting the incandescent light of the moon, I watch the violet veins arise from your skin. You are a woman on this night.

Darling, I can feel your body grow cold. You draw closer with every movement, our pores blooming to retain the warmth.

Our love is imminent, flourishing with every subtle touch and every rhythmic ******.  

We lie gazing at the dark skies once more, you awake but barely conscious, I compelled to hold you.

But my love, I took your soul that night.

This is one of those rare nights
where i just want to be alone,
and feel safe in a blanket of isolation
rather than unraveled and bare,
where others can see me.

Fingers bound
curling softly
as to not destroy
the skin.
Eyelashes bat
and bones creak
as two lovers
shift in a rhythm
so syncopated
and so in love.

Youth was a devil,
tempting us
with promise,
hiding us
from consequence.