(Verse)
I spit out shards of last night's dream,
chasing threads and fractured schemes.
I wear my bruises like hand-stitched lace,
daring the dawn to match my pace.

Two summers dissolved, one in the wings,
winter-break and blooming, all gray, tangled strings.
I'm stranded between lost-cause and unfound,
with roots in the sky and feet on the ground.

(Pre-Chorus)
And isn't it tragic, the way ghosts take form?
You're a pattern, a habit, a half-hearted storm.
If you looked at me once like you meant to stay,
would it settle the dust or just ******* away?

(Chorus)
It's almost poetic, the way I play my part—
one foot in daylight, the other in the dark.
Fighting-fit and fighting-mad, memories that churn,
clinging to the sighing bridge I watched you cross then burn.

And if I said I could love you, would it land?
Or hang in the air, a threat, all hollow and ******?
And if I said I love you, would it even land?

(Verse)
Said you resented how I used you to ache,
like I cast you as fire while I burned at the stake.
Said I wore my wounds like jewels dripping down
a cocotte smile, a  martyr's crown.

Called me blameless, a darling saint,
a canonized victim in delicate paint.
But I've learned to love the heft of scars,
wearing ashes you left like fallen stars.

(Pre-Chorus)
And isn't it just twisted, the way you choose to haunt?
A vivid grace, a clever chase, a truth you did not want.
You planted roots in a garden you'd leave,
an empty grave I still water and grieve.

(Chorus)
It's almost poetic, the way I play my part—
one foot in daylight, the other in the dark.
Fighting-fit and fighting-mad, memories that churn,
clinging to the sighing bridge I watched you cross then burn.

And if I said I could love you, would it land?
Or hang in the air, a threat, all hollow and ******?
And if I said I love you, would it even land?

(never-ending Bridge)
When we talked about kids, with laughter on lips,
madness like heirlooms, sweet apocalypse.
“It’s not right to ******* around,”
you dropped your bombs as I star-gazed from the ground.

You loved me in riddles, in half-truths and smoke,
left me craving the punchlines to every cruel joke.
Appointed me Queen of an empire gone
a plot-line twisted, a catastrophic denouement.

Asked you to visit, heart laid bare,
big house, empty rooms, “Come, love me there.”
What do you think of when your hands get bored?
Do they crave the inches you never explored?

Kissed me in theory, ****** me in words,
left me aching in metaphors, splintered in thirds.
Does my short-skirt-restless stir you, ten years gone by?
Do you see I’m getting cuter? A five-foot fine-wine.

Think of me late, when you can't get clean,
when desire drips slow, my name gasoline.
I dream of you younger, long hair, frayed seams,
like a well-timed kiss could rewrite dropped lines, silent screams.

Now I wonder where you are, in what state, what bed,
if you ever read my poems or regret what you said?
Maybe you think of me, brilliant, unbridled-
or maybe I'm nothing—worthless, exiled.

(Chorus)
It's almost poetic, the way I play my part—
one foot in daylight, the other in the dark.
Fighting-fit and fighting-mad,
on my knees but singing
verses from scars still stinging.

And if I said I could love you, would it land?
Or hang like a ghost, hollow and ******?
And if I said I love you, would it even land?

(Outro)
It's been a long time coming, this curse, this lust,
I've woven us into poems, stitched from rust.
If I said I loved you, could you let it stand,
without closing your fist around my trembling hand?

Think of me fondly, then punch out a wall—
echoes from bridges you’re compelled to let fall.
I don't think it'd land.
I know it wouldn't land.
wouldn’t land.

It’s like I’m slipping in slow motion
I’m the only one who can notice it now
But eventually I’ll fall
My gut tells me to grasp at the straws
I planted to steady me
But their roots are shallow
And stalks are withered
And when I reach up they brush past
My fingers and our connection fails
And I
F
    A
          L
               L
I fall too fast in slow motion
For anyone to help
And all this time
I felt it inside
Knowing somethings wrong
And I said nothing

I feel you cradle me, and I watch,
as you set aside warmed milk,
onto the bruised counter. 
I tried yelling out to God,
but you thought it best
to hush me
with a molded pacifier.
I spat on you, in resistance
as my mouth is left
with the taste of
iniquity;
my face, crimson and 
boiling,
and yet, you decide
to sing your hymns.
I responded in Tongues,
in hopes of your praise.
But, you only took
my words as babble.
You take me to the den,
to lay my body;
though I hung,
and spread my arms,
as did He
while persecuted.
Once placed,
you swaddle me
with the wool 
of Abraham's sacrifice.
I then decide
to sit myself
up,
my back pressed against 
chipped, wooden bars.
My eyes averted
to the heavens
and with vengeance
I spurt out:
Do we, only we,
praise the creator?
Or does the creator
praise us?

the future is a recent concept to me.

i spend my entire life looking backwards, to worlds and people that left me behind long before i was born.
reaching into water i can't see the bottom of, down on my knees in the mud, just close enough to the edge to sweat.
i thought of futures sometimes, occasionally, sleek and chrome with wires peeking through each rusted corner.
but they were never futures i was a part of. always for a generation whose parents were yet to exist, a century i couldn't even count to.

i didn't imagine my own adulthood at all until a week before my 18th birthday.

when i was a child it never crossed my mind. i didn't realize yet that youth was a state that all except the tragic move beyond.

i pried a disposable razor apart with nail clippers when i was twelve, and pulled it through my skin.
once the anger drained itself dry i stared at the scratches, the edges, the angles between them,
as if i was investigating a cave painting, making guess after empty guess at meaning and motivation and reason.
until i remembered that skin would scar.

and suddenly every year of an average life hit at once, and i panicked.
it was long, unbearably long. minutes stretched into days and a decade sounded unending.
so i resigned myself to simply
                                  
                       ­                                         not make it.


and i told myself that, often, for years.
i would set a date, tidy my room, make sure i had all my arguments settled.
then i would cry, and fail, and come up with an excuse to postpone it a few months.

i tried twice, on the same day, four years apart.
i even tried to go to school the morning after each overdose, but i never made it past midday.
i ran off the morning bus the first time, puked and cried and stared at strangers who walked past thirteen year old me, unflinching, until i was done.
i was half dragged, half carried, half conscious to my classes, until i got sent home. but i said i was tired, and nobody asked questions.

when i was seventeen i made it to the alleyway by the school gate before vomiting, eyes watering from the force and the fear.
a man in a van bought me water and offered to drive me to hospital. i wondered what he was doing four years ago.
but the hospital told my parents, and gave me a counsellor, and a month into therapy she asked me why i had nearly thrown away an entire future.

i couldn't answer her. i cried, and we were silent, and she changed the topic.
what could i tell her? that the future always cut off a few vague months ahead whenever i tried to look at it? that i had never even expected myself to get this far? that my entire life has felt like borrowed time? no, then she would only ask more. and i just wanted to leave.

so i left, and somewhere along the way i stopped going back, stopped answering her calls, her letters, her voice asking my mother if i was still alive.
it was a week before my 18th birthday when i realised i would actually live to see it.

but i've made it through a whole year of university so far, despite never thinking i would leave school. it's been one year and four months of winging it now.
time still passes when you aren't looking,
and somehow i made it this far.

i've accepted the rest of my life, however long it is. i hope as much as i fear. i'm tired, mostly. i'm angry at myself for wasting so much time. but there's nothing i can do about that now, i just have to move forward.

i wonder sometimes, often, if i will ever get to a point where i will be okay forever. where i can take the sad little piece of myself that i carry each day out of my pocket, put her down, and walk away.
i don't think i will, but i'm trying to make my peace with that.

Streaked by rain
Hair matted down
To their face
Watching from my window
Up on their toes
Glass pressed to nose
Loving me
In a way that only
A night watcher could

Sometimes
I wish one of us would die
Just to end this mess
To let my hair grow out
To become someone else
Again

Was it too much
To think of myself
As beyond physical attraction?
I guess it was.
I'm not in love.