She's not made of sugar and spice
or everything nice.
She's made of blood stained dresses
and matted, unkempt long tresses,
skin tattooed with markings made with a blade
and a body and mind that have decayed.
All alone in a raging war against her own being,
she has a distorted view of the world she's seeing;
thinking that the world is a better place without her in it,
she's mutilating every part of herself bit by bit.

Words theyv been feeble
Waves much unstable
Wallowing on the spectrum
Of overruling phantasm:
And eye have become...
Nothing.
Nothing but an oddball-
| Certifiable |
tenebrous influence-
| Socially unacceptable |
Day by day getting more and more..
un..available.
And All these Stoicism
All those optimism
Now have been
Swamped away by the skepticism
While every destructive mechanism -
They
Swift..
along..
The throat level
( choking )
And It is all inescapable
For them Crus are Tethered 
Catatonic and unfeathered
Aaand 
I am
choking
on
Every hit
of ripples
That I swallow
For this pond is 
narrow
Way too shallow.
For me...
to
Sink.

Everyone I know is dead inside
So let's throw a party
Inside our miserable lives

How I love that twist
When I manipulate the situation
My others strike misdirected

Let's fill the empty
With motions from the oceans
Of our others' lives
Let's play chess for battles fought
In happy clouds of datura
Dusting our design

What's worse than
behavior
running amok?

What's worse than
betrayal
self-imposed?

I'll tell you
the
conclusion
I've
drawn tonight.

In my marrow
enmity grows,
infects my self-regard.
How else did I find
myself here, dejected,

wholly wet
pursuing
brief contentment

through besmirched
eyeliner
streaming my face

in a mirror,
in your home,
at night without a car?
I'll catch the TriMet

to my bed, once again.