Ignorance has become a new fashion: the dresses on the red carpet and the
Black mascara on the TV screen. We write things as epiphanies come,
While they are out there making fools of themselves in their transparent or
Nonexistent clothing and neon underwear.

I imagine all of the people in Tome Square, even though I have never been.
The daily routines and mechanical gossip about the ******* celebrities that run their lives
And the stench of portable hot dog carts. You are a numerator of what you could be.
Wake up... You're dreaming. Try harder, you can't run faster after you have
Stepped in quicksand. You are so stupid! Look ahead! Watch for things before they come,
You are too impulsive!ay attention to others for once, it is not all about you.
Truth has become a new fashion: faded jeans and thick sweatshirts. Those of us
Who understand and seek nothing from others;
They are not worth it.

Small talk, advice given, but forgotten
It seems.
No longer able to form
Coherent words, seek solace, converse
Where no one will see our troubles.

I am sorry, brother.

It's funny, those mirror images. Small bracelets of macaroni-turned jewels,
Costly and pointless. Plastic race cars that mom and dad bought me
Zooming around and breaking vases that once
Held cigarette ash. Flowers wrote an essay on lung cancer,
A peer who, on a high night, was put into the vase.
Flora lungs are surreal.
Imagine a flower the shape of me: my blue hair and eyes the petals and bud,
My body a stem and lungs are the leaves,
Ripped out of my sternum and strewn into the antigravity that surrounds me.
A mirror image in another world,
But somehow not the same. Like nuns and ****** both
Screaming to God as their **** are groped and abused.
Collisions with the coffee table tip the coughing flower and let sailors tug on the ropes,
Sailing on the sea of liquid ash and sing "yo-no yo-**" all the way to the white carpet.
A memorial. To the woman who was saved hereby flashing lights and muffled sirens,
The drugs were too heavy.

And then we sit playing scrabble and watching the news. Oh that poor girl.
It doesn't matter though. It is far enough away to only think of palindromes to click in the
Plastic squares, a perfect fit for a triple word score.
But the score doesn't matter. It is what the word represents.
Reviver: one who brings back.
A necromancer? The zombified critters under the stairs because you felt bad about killing them.
They ate your food, but you conducted a mass ****** with that sweet poison that crystallizes
Their blood. Their parallel selves are still alive aren't they? The realms are separated by a thread,
Nothing more, so why must they be dead?

Why must they be characters in a movie? Everything is a lie, even the
Letters laid on the game board.
The words we speak is a made up language, the god most believe in
Is a figment of imagination. And so is mine. They are just creatures
Written in a book by drunken sailors, man himself,
Or warped versions of a goddess created by hags, high of of the leaves
Vining in their flowerbeds. Clouds came down because of the warm brandy and
Smoke from their pipes, polluted and *****.
Fog does not belong here, this Christmas, but at least it will mask the brick wall that
Everyone seems to crash into.
It is a theory of course; people with glass skulls and hollow brains won't live through it,
But it is worth a shot. No one knows whether you will be crushed, or the wall.
On the other side, the other half of the world, the mirrored side,
Exactly the same as the one behind. Nothing new, but everything to see. You haven't looked until
You've seen the opposite of yourself.

These nights in bed
Where I am up much too late
Espiecally with such early class

But the stress of those classes-
No, the stress of the people
Make it a need to drown the demons

I can handle class
Flick of the wrist
Five minutes each.

People are much harder
I try to relate how I can
To my friends who I cling to

But I am not good at this.
Stumbling to bashful words
Nothing interesting on my mind but businesslike questions.

I want to say
"How do you feel today?"
But I often get the same **** answer.

"I'm good."
*******, we're teenagers.
Nothing's ever just 'good'.

Whenever I do come up with something
Ears are sewn closed
Mouths repeating 'mmhm' like a mantra.

And then there's the loneliness
Can I help it if I want a gentle hand,
And maybe a pretty face?

Forced relationships aren't my thing.
I've seen it and I'm seeing it
So I stray far from that.

Okay, maybe a few friends are okay.
Though who knows how long that'll last.
I'm pretty good at ******* those up.

So the stars watch me
And listen my crooning sobs
Sung out like an opera.

I hope and pray for better luck
And slowly it comes.
But for now, music stays my friend,
My bed my lover.

Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings,
The drug that sings an Angel's lullaby, tosses you into the toy box like another rag-doll.
We've fallen for it again. The dusty dolls and
Hollow plastic telephones that hold spider eggs are the only companions now.
But I am here. And I am your friend.
Although I can not make any promises that I am beautiful, I will be as pretty as I can;
I will wear dresses and makeup.
My scars are not covered, they show and glow like luminescent tattoos etched into my skin.
Do you have any ink? Did your feather pen spill over the page, erasing your work?
Did the charcoal reflection ******* over and stain your perfect self?
Of course it did. That is what happens when the desk you write on is slanted, demented,
But it seems to be your twin.

Your mind is not a place of blazing meteors, honey. It's a place of evil things.

You are a twisted little *****, but so am I, you see. We have both taken the wrong path,
The only difference: I know how to survive. How to fool the monsters under the bed into thinking
I am one of them. In a way, I might even be telling the truth. I painted my own mask:
A splash of black here, a drop of blood there, and... Something is missing, but they won't notice.
They will always let me dance with them around their moonlit blue flames; I am their queen,
My mask, to them is beautiful. And they understand the me that I have fabricated to escape
The wretched toy box on the other side of the bedroom, over the mountains of ***** socks and
Dusty snow globes, even if a part of me is not complete.
I am still stuck in that box long after the room rotted away, the box melted in the
Sunlight and every speck of dust swept away by the wind and rain.
But at least more of the black poppies can grow.
Normally red, flame like. Petals caress, and wither,
And fall. The dizzying peace in the slumber it brings, leaving everyone who slips the glass pill
Comatose in a hospital bed, tubes shoved down their throat to keep from asphyxiating.
No matter how many visitors come to read stories and play songs on the ukulele,
They will remain dormant. They are not longer home, so stop ringing the bell.

No, I take that back.
Ring the death bell one more time, invite everyone to the land of green grass and marble sculptures;
Tell them to bring poppies because it was the deceased's favorite flora,
But neglect to say which color. The visitors bring red,
An alien on the color spectrum and unrecognized by the ghost atop the gravestone.

Still, the dull color matches the spatter of blood on the mask I once wore, and I am brought back
A hologram, of sorts. The bowed heads below me are too dense to look up, except for one.
It's you, love. You grew the flowers that put me there.
The dull color that hypnotized me night after night and made me dream of your body
Covered in the withered petals. You, love. My poppy dealer.

Move against the darkness that bites your tail, little wolf. Fight back.
Don't you see the clearing at the edge of the bluff? The light that rains there?
Drops of glow, little stars come from the reflection of oceans.
Dance there, sing your song of howls and tribal verses.
Nothing is following you anymore. They have no want to,
You have changed into an ugly monster, dripping black and green poison.
No me wants to love a filthy girl, a demented form of a creature once sought after.
Just because the darkness yanks on your beaded hair does not mean it is evil.
You don't understand the liquid gold it speaks, you can not hear the warnings.
The white light that illuminates the field of carnivorous wild flowers
Transformed you to your true form.
And the meteor showers washed away the rest of you.
A bitter chill that encompasses the world you once knew, and isolation sets in.
The sound of your strangled cries are the only thing left, but even then,
The echoes are unbearable. Silence is your only friend.

No physical inspiration, no sound, and soon, you forget their name.
The one who kept you from destroying yourself in the first place.
Death himself asks you three questions.
"What is your name?"
I don't know.
"Do you want to die?"
Maybe.
"Why?"
I don't know.

The questions are written in your own blood, but the hooded figure is
Nowhere in the red reflection you stare into. No light. No light.
Yet you wake up in your own cave as if nothing has happened.
Nothing except the matted fur and the festering wound in your side,
Pain searing you to your bones, burning every thought to ash.

*Don't worry, little wolf. It will be over soon.
Just don't let the sunlight get you again.