Among the wreckage
of her soul,
lie shards of ribcage
(splintered like
the stern of a ship
that has weathered
many a beastly storm)
and fragments of heart
(veins as thin and lifeless
as the gossamers
of waterlogged spider webs).

Sunken treasures
you could call these things,
waiting in this perpetual limbo,
this Bermuda of Lovers Lost.

"Girl, overboard!"
he'd cried
(even though he
had been the one
to push her over the edge
in the first place).

Imagine that:

wrists tied behind her--
what hurts more?
The rope burns
or the cuts?--
feet sweeping despondently
across that doomed plank;
she can feel her love's breath--
frigid as Neptune's sea-bound winds--
undulating against the back of her neck.

She turns around slowly,
and he shoots her that
pathological
barracuda grin,
promises her that he cares--
truly, he cares--
that she means something to him.

But many a thing
a pirate does thief,
the truth
being one of them.

The next thing she knows,
she is plummeting
(watch how she does fall for him)
towards the convulsing
stretch of grey beneath her,
and as she whips about
through the bluster and the rain,
she stares up at him
with wild, pleading eyes.

She wants to scream out,
"Why?"
but there is no room
for words (or poetry)
upon the lips of the drowned--
after all,
dead girls tell no tales

From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
sailor
explorer
scientist
poet
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
grievances--
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
imagination--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
unbelievable--
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

now,
they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

{Atlantic}

I always look
my most beautiful
when I cry;

the bags under my eyes
burn as poignantly
as waning crescents,
lips plump as they quiver
with the same multitudes
of Artemis' bowstring,
chest heave-hoeing
against the tempered
vessel of my soul.

I wear sadness
remarkably well,
you know.

Like black lipstick.
or short hair.
or poetry.

(Cleopatra's got nothing on me, baby)

My reflection tessellates
against the swell of my tears,
evolves into
kaleidoscopic fractals
of smouldering thrones
and howling queens--
into images most
strange and terrible.

(But, oh, how I welcome them.)

A delicate curtsy of words
respires from my mouth,
forms upon my tongue
its homage--
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom.

It starts in my chest,
the hate,
the anger.
The urge to destruct clouds
over my eyes,
and all I can see is fire.
I can't sit still.
Everything shakes and falls.

And when it's over
all that's left is smoke.
It floats off my fingers.
Alarms are ringing in my head.
I look and see the mess,
everything I've ruined.
Through the clouds, I can see my home,
my past,
everything I've ever loved,
I burned.

This is what I am.
This is what I do.

You used the oldest play in the book,
But I’m a sucker for antiques and I’m optimistic to a fault.
You said don’t be worried,
But why is this time different?
We’ve always ruined it with our vicious cycle,
And the venom is just sweet enough that even though we are rotting, we still want seconds.
Please don’t let this be poison disguised as nectar.
Next time, I won’t come back.

The days once looked to
Are ruined
Memories I have loved of us
Are ruined
Everything is in your power to take
Im leaving soon
I will not return
Some say I will die
I said I will learn

It's not that I want to fail. . .
just that, if I am going to anyway
why not do it spectacularly?

At least there's gossip. . .
that counts for some,
-thing, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

stop it!
why do you try to ruin everything?

I never meant for my pain to ruin you
like a strangers cold fingertips on your bare skin
ruin you like it did me

I wanted to protect you from the world but I couldn’t protect you from myself

It’s deep dark. I am talking to an owl
who is awaken in my tree.
An unknown radio station playing
“I Ain’t Got No Home in This World Anymore”
make the night bleed in black.
Those paper planes you made flies
around in a storm within.
Uninvited butterflies possess the
room through the smoke scented windows.
The temperature rises and my fever burns,
an empty needle still stitches a wound in me.
The song doesn’t stop but repeats.
Shoot me in the point-blank.
Have a well dug deep grave.
I stole a journey from you.
Be insane my tremors,
a long-awaited winter is coming.

Still long to go this long night
There is a greater possibility of
getting your heart ruined
but you do it everyday
Do you remember the old house
in the end of the street?
I always had that unhappy
feeling about the colour.
Now let’s paint it in hard yellow.
I still knew you close
your eyes when you smile.