It's a private thought. They are not meant to be invaded, but
They were anyway. I thought you knew what my dreams were.

Every single one, I see a pair of eyes. Sometimes blue,
Sometimes green,
Sometimes grey,
But always shimmering.

It was dark and I saw nothing else. But somehow I could feel
Hands.
Gentle hands on my bare skin.
And a breath in my ear, whispering things that only matter
When said by one voice.

I could feel something that only one person can make me truly feel.
Love, fear, and a consuming lust.
Somehow, we were floating, but felt safe. We had the confidence and grace
Of cherry blossoms in the wind.

He kissed every ligament in my spine,
Returned to my lips and eyes,
And used his skin to cover my body, only for him to see.
He played with my hair,
He sighed on my neck and breathed me in. All I could
Think was "me. He is doing this to me."
He kissed my neck, about to completely connect
And make me feel more than I ever will.

And then I woke up.

-Year fifteen.

Normal girl, tall and slender. Bright eyes and developing body.
But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by something else. Beautiful bones,
Long, pink nails and the skin on her palm smoother than silk.
The veins show a dull peppermint on her snowy skin.
Her thin wrist and delicate movements.

She cracks her knuckles so her sharp joints will show more.

-Year twenty three.

The life she lived previous was pressured by the pollution in the air. ****,
Drugs, and alcohol. She slouches and shivers on a warm summer day,
Huddled in a corner of her house.

Her hands show no more snow. The veins seem shriveled.
Her joints were swollen and unmovable.
Her palms are coarse from rubbing them together and her nails...
Oh, her nails were ****** and torn off. She clawed too much at her neck
As she was held down and suffocated.

-Year twenty four.

*"I am sorry." The note read.

It was a deformed hand. Bite marks on her fingertips, shriveled skin with blotches and sores.
The veins drawn over in pink scars from jagged blades and old attempts.
It was a miracle she could write at all.

She now lays in an open casket. Eyes stare at her contrasted beauty.
Her childhood friend had always loved her hands. He reconstructed them.
A shriveled old body, only twenty four years old, but seemingly ancient.

But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by someone who truly loved her.
Beautiful bones,
Long and pink plastic nails. The skin on her palm made of silk.
The veins are drawn with a dull peppermint pastel on her falsely snowy skin.

He cracked her fingers so her prosthetic joints will move less.

Click, falls to the floor. Dusty movie theater with shoe dirt on the backs of the seats.
Noisy couples in the back ******* face and other parts, distract from
The dead body on the screen and the 3-D pool of blood dribbling towards them.
"Love, won't you bite my eyes? Your lipstick reminds me of the deadly ruby liquid in your veins."

Because it is.

Send me a fire starter and foundation to cover the crispy skin of my forearm.

I am sorry, I couldn't help it, I was so cold and desperate for heat.
The firemen were too late. The steel walls surrounding me melted from
The heat and my every regret was spilled in front of me.
Underground tunnels make my black ink flow like the Nile,
Washing my pages with black and erasing my written labyrinth.

Send a raft so that I may not drown in my own madness. A signed envelope
With a perfect message.

Sleep when you write, you can dream that way, an exaggerated reality
That murders your sense, drags you into a dusty cupboard and gouges out your eyes and ears.
Three weeks later, a box shows up at your door.
You reach inside and feel everything, smell the rotting flesh. You can not hear or see anything
Because your parts used for perception are in your hand.

Happy Birthday!
From, your worst nightmare.

Once upon what seems like so long ago,
We were children incapable of being tainted.
A kiss was just a peck on the cheek
And "*****" was just something that you drilled into a wall.
Boys and girls could be friends, best friends even,
Like mine were, and rumors of *** were unheard of.
When fights on the playground were just childish games,
And we didn't care about other's opinions.
We wondered what it would be like to grow up, never realizing the horrors.
Of the lies,
The drama,
The torture we would face.
Now, we think back, wondering why we ever changed.
Why we wished to be the way we are now.

Today, we are Teenagers;
Hormonal,
Emotional,
Physical,
And undoubtedly stereotypical.
Society seems to think we are incapable of rationality.
Incapable of thinking about consequences instead of pleasure
And who the next girl to "pop" would be.
But, no.
We wonder why.
Why we had to change.
Why we did change.
Why we lost our most prized possession.
We remember the friends we had,
The promises we made.
The inside jokes that everyone knew.
The one kid we wanted to marry,
And then they moved across the country.

We were so innocent, and knew so little.
Until we grew and adapted to the young adult life.
We claimed to be happy, and others believed,
But all of us teens know
We long to be young.
We long to be innocent.
We long to be normal.
Not the perverted freaks people think us to be.
Not the people who judge boys who act like girls
Or the girls who look like boys.

Our innocence and ability to understand was robbed from us
The second we left Elementary school.
Some of us now feel the  need to bully others,
To judge our peers,
To impress the opposite gender by exposing ourselves.

If only we could remember the innocence.
If only we could bring it back like a retro fashion sense,
Yet keep it here instead of letting it die for good.
Could we try?
Will it work?

Could it still be with us after all this time?

Roses are red,
Violets are Blue.
I am going to bed.

*Will you come, too?