A little lie
A little word
And you're put under my spell
You never knew
You never even doubted
That I was telling the truth
You should have known
You didn't even try
You took my words
And believed them every time
I held you in my arms
Until my heart became cold
You never even second guessed
You didn't even try
And came running back to me
Each time my hands reached
To you again
You poor thing
How you must despair
Being thrown around in circles
How aweful you must feel
Being stomped into the earth
Tell me, how does it feel
To be infused into dirt?
I can hear you weeping
From the corners
I can feel you reaching
Towards the pain
So addicting
You can't get enough of me
You must be starving
As I give you nothing but remnants
Nothing but a piece of me
As you hunger for more
I will become your destruction
As you feed off my addiction
It must be so lonely
Always being barely within
Arm's reach
Falling so hard; so fast
Do you really think I would take your hand?

I freeze
My smile says, you got me again but inside, your words have gutted me,
Like walking into a room full of Simon Cowells,
And losing my voice
Yes, in fact
You took my voice from me
This game we play where we both bear our fangs for alpha-female in our sick, twisted trio
But the difference is this
I do not make the haughty stabs that you inflict upon others
Flicking your tongue like a silver blade, and I, your waiting victim,
Am here, readily awaiting your torture because I don't know how to make other friends
So I let the violence continue
Maybe my ex was right about you
Maybe you're the reason why if it weren't for my hemophobia, my wrists I would slice,
But pills suffice
My smile says, you got me again.

-E (c) 2017

I woke up with a shake
I couldn't think
I was buried in ash
I smelled smoke
I couldn't move
I was drowning
And then
I woke up
it was just a dream
but I still smelled smoke..

Whilst the mist fall
Wiped the window
From this far I could see
Framed hanging picture
Not a modern art, amaze
A view, take my soul with
The talent to portray nature
The beauty, the naked truth
Once man's exploited mind,
Increased thrive for progress
Led to destroy the essence
The source he grew up
Found shelter upon, betrayed
He's ashamed now, to touch
With his bare foot or finger
To feel the poisoned mother
He's brave, to let her bleed
By his vicious weapons

Together, let's paint our future in blood,
And intertwine our veins.

Why are you turning back?
I have you now; I'm not letting you go away.

Feel my knife etching my initials in your skin
And gaze at the marks from my bites.

A perfect doll for my collection,
You are forever mine.

I'm not one to associate with jealousy,
I just decapitate anyone who glimpses your way.

Now, now; no need to worry,
There's nothing physically wrong with my brain.

It's just that your tormented shrills just turn me on,
That I'm addicted to indulging in your soul.

The way your eyes represent an abyss of fear,
Your skin loses warmth and turns frigid cold;

And the flow of crimson rivers cascading down your flesh
When the pain is more than you can endure,

Makes me want to keep you in my chamber,
With your limbs chained to the floor.

If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)

If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces

I would never love an artist

because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin

No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)

no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins

And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters

I would never love an artist

because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt

For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)

If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer

But I am.
And I understand.

And I would never love an artist

For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed

And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer

you saw sadness,
and you never noticed the pain.

you heard the thunder,
and ignored the rain.

but yet you wonder,
just why you dug my grave.

you saw, my dear.

but you cannot see.