I hate it here,
where chaos is too much,
much too present,
I want to disappear,
behind curtains of hair
or anything else to
hide my descend,
there is something that
needs to be understood;
I don't deal well with
too-much-ness,
Anxiety has its own smell,
it resides in the comfort of my hood,
and, when they look at me
as if their eyes can undress,
I slip a false smile on my lips,
while my soul's opposition begs to yell.

just a little*
wallflower
a tiny little
small flower
floating on the breeze
of someone
else's
love
♡♡♡

I have one question.

That’s been digging trenches in my mind.

Hollowing out all the empathy, the faith,

the blind addiction to sourcing a better humanity;

better lovers, stronger fighters,

stunning believers, more tender hearts.

With actual effort to beat on their own.


Your exclamations are false, always.

And I can tell you why

my shell is caked in your muddy, rotting stink of fake facts.

I’m cracked, embittered, roughened edges capable of paper-cut slicing skin

and all my lovely scars can tell you something you hardly believe.

I’m here to tell you why.

And why I hate how you make me feel this way;

a cynical coil of seething, jilted, passion, to fix what I can’t.


For all those who make hearts melt and weep,

shed heat and fire in rapturous thoughts and darkened, tainted dreams;

for all the single words you used as tools to build up walls,

break down my walls,

deceive me into caring about you

who chisels into only getting the gem he wants.

You can collapse a mine on me for all you care

in the end.


For all those who can make devilishly delightful

fantasies for all the vulnerable loners,

like me,

like us all when we shut our eyes,

to hover and circle over, beg for on our backs,

naked and open and bleeding raw beneath you

like ritual sacrifices for some higher purpose, some higher hopes and

goals and unwavering loyalties

to you,

my dearest demon behind every salvation;

You are the emotional abusers that gravitate in my orbit,

and I can’t seem to dislodge your planets from my line.

I admit, you got me high off some stunning ****.

Of yours.


For all those gentle, perpetually unavailable, curious beings

vacationing deep away inside

if only you would let me try and reach you, for you

to bring out all the best in me back;

before you close up like sealing a scar

We are left in a continual loop of back and forth and sideways,

hovering through open, closing doors

elevator rides to the same living routine, breaths, steps,

burdened heavy heart and raw eyelids

bruised red and blue in swollen tears

when you can never emerge from yourself to realise I’m right here

for you.


For those that run around, commanding disciples, throwing the weight of luck,

fortunate coincidences, helping fools sabotage and **** for existence,

perfection,

idealism,

licking off frosting,

dwelling in your own superiority,

I see your ruse.

Painting pristine pictures

with the lift of a finger

selling illicit jealousies and spite

like wildfire

from the back of your 24/7 Facebook page.

You make us understand the reality of one-sided loyalties,

the critical unfair rulings of want and have,

divided and mixed between people,

achievements hard fought for like precious land

and ownerships of better peoples

determined by the infernal number of people you know.


So yes.

I do have one question for you.

Why are you like this?

An why must we all break apart alone in

the boiling pressure of it all?

Forget the next night.

Wait for the return.

Am I not pretty enough?

What the **** is pretty anyway?

Do I not workout enough?

Am I not on the same hypes and drugs and drinks as everyone else?

Am I not on the same rollercoaster of routines and work of sleepless drones?

Do I not live fast enough for you?

Am I not forthright enough, demanding enough, shocking enough?

Am I not tall enough, too bulky, too reserved, too quiet, too confused for you?

Too little to be involved with

or too big of a person to begin understanding?


Am I too rigid and formal for you; are you angry I tighten up when

I let you touch me?

Or are you intimated when I make you drip desire all over me

and I make you touch me there?

Am I too sophisticated for you; too intelligent, am I too bothersome?

Am I not a bad girl enough for you? Because you seem to like whatI give you

in the dark.

Do I make too much effort over you?

Do you run away because I fuss and ****** over you when we say we

love each other?

but you pull out too soon for that.


Am I too difficult to comprehend, too broad, too much danger and disaster

and sadness and realism for you to deal with?

Do I not change my ideas, swap decisions enough for you?

Am I not a good little lier?

Am I not good enough in bed?

Or are you worried I’m faking it?

Do I not want you enough? When really, i’m itching all over to have you to myself.

Or are you scared I’ll start using you for *** and desire and

lust

like you do me?

Am I not tattooed or scared or brazen or daring enough?

Do I not try and meet your friends, while you hide them away because I

can’t get too attached?


Do I look too lonely for you?

Am I not needy enough for you?

Do I not party like you?

Do I not make moves like you do?

Do I look beaten and bruised and battered and scared of you?

Because I have every right to be.

Sometimes I need to hit myself with spirits to remind myself how unpredictable

and unbelievably cruel you can be.


You get to slide your eyes all along me when I walk past, on my way home.

You get to ask me questions that are only designed to pry my legs open.

You get to glide your hands around me and daddy me long past bed time.

You get to buy your way in to get me closer.

You get to make your intentions too clear, and no one stops to question you.

You get to wait and watch and steal a glance or graze your fingers up my skirt,

without a flinch.


You get to own me whenever you feel like, send a text or blow a kiss.

And I’ll be a fool to cave in, and be blamed for doing so.

You get to use me for your rough release; i’m left tender and raw and you love seeing it.

You get to push and pry and tease and taunt,

just **** me already so I can cut these ****** strings. It’s all you ever want, even if you

tell me it surely isn’t.

I’m your animal, your toy, your prize and your trophy.


So **** your opinion.

Keep your approval personal.

So **** your designs; your proof I’m dexterous and skilful for being fun, not for

commitment.

Keep your work in storage; placate me and say they’re failures.


So I ask you, am I pretty enough?

Or am I too self aware of your righteous *******?