She loves every one of her victims.
From the bottom of her cold well of a heart,
she loves them.

She would never ****
an innocent creature;
they all deserve it.

She stalks her prey,
she gets in close,
they begin to whisper

their evil little secrets.
No one is blameless.
She knows this.

Dig deep enough,
find the truth.
It is soiled.

She slits their throats.
You are released
from your sins,

she ensures them.
Through hot blood,
they promise they love her, too.

Sun sets with regret.
Darkness of night
fails to appear.

When I was a little girl
And my mother still laid out clothes for me
She'd always tell me
"You're the prettiest girl in your class,
But you'd be beautiful if you combed your hair more."

When I was a bit older
And I didn't care much
About what I wore
My mom would always say
"You'd be beautiful if your clothes matched."

When I was 14,
And I skipped breakfast and lunch
And binged at dinner
I lost my appetite
And felt like throwing up
When my mom said
"You'd be beautiful if you didn't eat so much."

I wonder if you saw what I did to myself
If you'd have the nerve to tell me
"You'd be beautiful if only you didn't
Take a razor to your wrist or a finger to your throat."

Come in, stoop a bit
the door is too low,
as the tradition demands;
close your umbrella
put it in a corner
this is a space
you'd find in no map.
Did you keep your companion
for all occasion, logic, outside?
when you go a long distance
and your psyche is the road
that presence is a speed breaker,
we don't even need any clock,
there is no time in this realm
past and future are in the present.
Forget the world we would,  at once
dark shadows dance holding hands
of light, all in a trance, create music
and then within, one realizes this
we are all notes of an orchestra
playing all along

Death is everywhere
It surrounds us like a cloak
And engulfs humanity more often
Than the darkness envelopes the moon
You can see it in the trees
Bare branched and broken
You can see it in the news
Another tragedy hitting the screens
You can see it in your own eyes
As you scratch at half healed scars
I don't know why people fear death,
After all, it seems to be the only thing
That makes sense in this world
From the moment we are born
We begin to die
And if that isn't poetic,
How could life ever be?

He tells me that
My body is a map
And he wants to explore
He tells me I am a lost continent
That is more beautiful than
The rest of the world's wonders
But he doesn't see it all
Not the scars littering
My legs and sides
Or the uneven grotesque lines
On my thighs. They plague me.
He doesn't see all of me
And I wouldn't have it
Any other way.

A lot of time spent
having miscellaneous conversations with the air.
Even stupid questions like "how's your day" acting as if it'd give an answer, or, even more,
a whisper of inspiration
It's an obligation, or, maybe a delegation, or, a confirmation?
that we will create a masterpiece before insane peace
With a piece of our minds becoming a little less peaceful by the day.
Soon our minds will turn into violent catapults hurling out sentence after sentence making our paper bleed
                                                     Black, Blue, Red, Gray
Joining a cult created by the letters we created ourselves
falling into the abyss these stanzas and paragraphs invite us into
And don't get me wrong, it sounds terrible, but it's home.
There's no place like it.
Where these words are so much more than words,
they're family.
But frequently, we get into arguments that erupt into something sinister
and our desks become littered with papers that wilt and wither into nothing more than liters upon liters
of a type of alcoholic beverage that'll tempt us into becoming outspoken drunkards
But that's the goal:
*to be outspoken.