I wish to keep the wishbone within the body,
Not snap apart a life under the guise of luck.
Collect lost pennies, not lives,
You evil murdering *****.

the subtle difference
between
holding a hand
and
chaining a soul

between
burying a self
and
heading from the dead things piled up behind you

leaning
(isn't love)

a transaction
integrity for security
(isn't love either)

kisses are not contracts
presents are not promises

defeat comes into the bar —
—familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender
drunk—young love
burning down onto the dance floor
holding on tightly to that known

O' Captain, my Captain!

treacherous are the roads of the morrow
—its grounds, too unstable for plans
futures have a tendency of falling flat—.

a dulcy dandy melody
that of feet walking past—.

i endure
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child

i learn
to take in warm loving arms
my sunken ship
back to shore—

you often find yourself in this room as a good place in which to be miserable; for it is dark and still, full of ancient furniture, sombre curtains and hung all round with unfinished portraits of unknown men. no doubt it is an excellent place for woe, as the fitful spring rain that patterns on the window-pane seems to sob "cry away; i'm with you."

prim little doll you are always home, claiming bad weather and a cold keeps you indoors, spending most of your youth in between books and inked paper. here you read a great deal, cry a little and dream when allowed, among the books hands have stored for ages in the old dusty shelves. this suits you better than anything else but it is not good for you; you grow pale, heavy-eyed and listless, though your soft mother keeps all sorts of pretty needle-work stored in her closet and she paints you with lilacs when violets grow under your eyes. your poor friends rack their brains out for new amusement to wrap you round and determined to venture you in a bold stroke though not very hopeful of its success. little dreaming that their odd friend would find pleasure for herself in a most unexpected quarter.

child, you have no real cause to be sad, for you sleep in warm covers and have not yet discovered the real war among the spirits' cries. for you are unlike any other your sorrows may echo now; amuse yourself with the never ending nostalgia for it can only last so long before it brings you back.  
you were given the freedom to *** round, to swift from anger to content without consequences to hold worries about.

before squeezing out a single tear listen to the soft bird's chips, oath yourself the right of sadness but don't deny the desire for love, for every girl must find her corner when she's out in the real world.

my friend i wouldn't borrow trouble but have a real good time, i'm sure i should think i was clover if i had folks and colours and nothing to do but enjoy myself.

      sing for you, play for you
          a dulcy melody.

hands
hands
i often forget
i forget
about my hands
and
and ears
ears
my ears
i hear
all i hear are
girls
dancing girls
and
and rubber
rubber bands
but i know
i know you know
i know you
you don’t
know
you don't know
what that means

solitude stands
reflective of ourselves
pretending at times we do not exist

brooding insideness
greetings and farewells
fighting the abyss

dulcy be the sudden kiss
you have forbidden yourself at last
pretending at times you do (not) exist

it presses my shoulder blades,
ties my neck muscles into knots,
then settles deep within my chest.
the pain is the first sign
that my body is haunted.
it then puts my thoughts
on a hamster wheel.
they run in circles
without an escape.
this is the second sign.
but my heart takes control.
it voices my thoughts
so they can be seen and heard.
it stops spinning the wheel,
slowly comes out of my chest,
unties the knots in my neck
and lets go of my shoulder blades,
and my body does not feel its weight.

i was never good at being alone,
but i always managed to make myself
lonely, even among the chanting crowds

i drew every line that
differentiated me from
everyone else.
i convinced myself that
i was satisfied with loneliness,
but i wonder how much of that
comes from an acquired ability
to thrive of off unchosen
loneliness;
to what extent it might be
a form of contentment
built on a bedrock of
resignation

the exact middle, she claims
i'm neutral, she says
i don't pick sides, she proclaims

no, no
the exact middle is never
the exact middle
of nothing

we are always in the middle
of something

when i hear her say,
"you know i've never picked sides,"
what i really hear is:
"i don't care enough to care"
"my comfortability, my ignorance, is worth more than someone else's struggles"
"my silence is more important than another's life"

what i hear is you giving up, giving in,
because it's not your problem, right?

no, no
the exact middle
is never
a "neutral" place to be

ever since i left
i've been spending time with my anger
discussing perspectives and points of views
burnt the bridge, called it even, clenched my fists,
"wonder if anger is one of those things love gives birth to"
– my dear, what isn't born out of love quickly dies of thirst

i've been spending time with my sadness
weighting words and keeping scores
poking at the bruises, blowing candles on fake birthday cakes
"am i really sad or is it just disappointment?"
– it might as well be anger, it might as well be nothing

i've been spending time laughing
at the joke that always lands, getting the punch line right,
it's satire. cynicism is a soft form of denial
"when did your smile start to look like a smirk?"
– i love the irony that rests on the most painful things

i've been spending time in solitude
keeping my secrets to myself
collecting dust under my fingernails
"only i know how my misery carries me"
– and for the longest you've carried it
the longest it has taken me

i've been spending time unfolding
transforming, collecting, lamenting
waiting on the door to open, a window shutters
"how deep is deep enough to bury hope?"
– carve the stone and despair knows its home

i’ve been driving away, somewhere
calling out anger by what it is: grief
these funny little things: sadness and
its inadequacy, modern policies
"where are we going?"
– there is an ache in you
put there by the ache in me

i don’t really know where i’m going
i just know that i’m heading
from the death things piled up behind me

for years, my bones have felt more
like thin glass, feeble, brittle
little weak supports that
cannot begin to imagine embodying pillars
my frame a vase,
an empty shell filled with nothingness
i am but a half built monument of girl flesh that
never knew how to stand on her own

my fingers feel more like
knives, not dull but sharp, cold
little needles that puncture venom
underneath the skin, vile teeth
my mouth, a death kiss
i have failed at putting words
to the misery, this agony i've bared since childhood
a deep self hatred for who i fail to be
and for how little me there actually is
– half born like an uneaten dead twin

here, in this mind of mine
i’ve crumbled, a ruin of solemn, ashen rubble
consumed by the promise of structure
the hope of ending what shouldn’t have begun
i have failed at this too however
and it only feeds the monster within

who is that then
if not the human in me?