Her hair was black
Her **** where saggy
she was five foot five
just the right size

she tried her best
to make me explode
I forgive her though

use the money well
life can be cruel..
help your kids in china
go to school

The closet in the dim isolated room
Stores away so many of my bones
That store too many secrets for the
Weak hearted,
So each week I’m parted from demons
That are a part of too much of me.

But I can never see the difference, my two sides won’t show it.
It does so little to comfort me; what have I become?
Am I the walking dead and a watcher of the funeral of my smiles,
Whose continuous lives and illness discomfort and confuse all?
Am I fast asleep when dreams of a peaceful life take over?
Because I awake to find that I’m too stripped back and empty to find anything to give,
A signal I care, or knowing something has shifted
A tectonic plate in my brain,
Erupting the series of footsteps to the door
Of the insane, knocking furiously enough to break it.

The desperate pull of the veil over my mind
Disguises it as curtains for a show, a grand act.
I am the star of the leading role, too centred, too vain,
Perfect to match the unmatched mess I feel every day.
The genius illusion is that am I really acting?
Even I do not know.
The stage is my war zone; no man’s land,
Because I am obviously not human,
And I cannot let anyone else in.
It's bad comedy of a pathetic attempt at drama
For anyone willing to tolerate my oh so called woes.
I choke on the mixture of laughter and tears
I collect in a cracking overflowing jar and drink,
Getting intoxicated on my pity, and hazy on the self-mocking,
Gurgling manipulations of sharing the side dish
But also shoving away any takers.
I am greedy - I want it all to myself.

And to myself it shall remain.
I buy all the tickets and keep them to remind myself
How my dim isolated room shrinks with each entry,
How I refuse to give out any more keys.
Maybe the walking dead is what I am;
Surely life is not this lightless when it is lived.
At least I hope not.

oh honey she’s too busy thinking of creative ways of killing herself to pay you any attention,
lying at night with her limbs hanging off the sides of her bed beckoning the monsters underneath to pull her under.
maybe then will she have company so that the demons in her head can take the day off,
so she can breathe without the constant weight weighing heavy in her mind.

the only patterns in her grayscale world are self-made, nah, more like self-inflicted;
there’s the cigarette burns that dot her threadbare skirt and the
the only smile she has is the ones on her wrists, but somehow i think the jagged red lines weren’t made with lipstick, no not this time.

there’s grace in her stillness; she's coiled like a python about to strike.
bite before you’re bitten, yeah.
an arrow pulled back in the embrace of a bow, she hardly quivers.
aim and point,
determination to reach her target is the only constant she can count on
slicing through the air with a trained precision,
all teeth and fangs and broken glass.
no amount of touch can erase those who tracked dirt in her house before you,
you can’t make her forget the kisses trailed down her thighs before you,
not when those lips were dripping acid and winters passed, even now she still burns.
the corroding is invisible to everyone but her.
it will take more than snow to erase all that you’ve known

why is it that
we can recite the whole periodic table,
but when asked to write down
a list of what we like about ourselves,
the paper remains blank?

A fatal flaw
of selflessness
that is humbling
on paper
but self-destructive.