chipped at the seams.
cracked into something new.
the cycle of a poorly-potted plant.
never enough sunlight. never
enough water. never enough
minerals. yellow, then dead. grow
again, then yellow.

enigma—nothing close to one.
all open for those who want,
rather than need.

those who take and wear different lives
like clothes then shed like old skin falling
off the bone. only want you for a time,
and when the skin becomes loose, it's
uncomfortable. can't stand being in it.
shed like they need a new life to wear.
cycle. repeat. over again. today and tomorrow.

how can people live like this, i say, as i
desperately search for which version
of myself i will wear that day. who am
i around? oh, this one will fit fine.
enigma. many tries—one combination.
but who can find it?

if you need me, my door is
always closed. you’re evil
and you lie, so when you die,
i won’t shed a tear.

go back to the old places
and see if i cry there. but i
would rather not go there;
i won’t cry because i knew even then.

you said you hated me at first;
a different chapter is still the same book
so why grow new leaves when you can
bask in the decay and detest change?

you think it's gone.
and even though
you're 'over' it,
you turn quickly when
faced with it.

it never truly goes.
if you get it once,
you get it twice.
twice, then thrice.
then every time the winter comes around.

try to cry in the shower,
so when nothing falls,
the water from the shower
head will satisfy
the hunger to feel
something dripping.

something is loose
and it makes you happy.
how sick is that?

no physical markings,
but it's all there.

in the shower, the skin
around my knee turns
purple – memories of
primary school.
my hips turn white
in glimmers of the
sunlight – growing
up is ******* the body.

but that's physical.
mental wear and tear
has made me hide
things cleverly.

sometimes i don't know
what to think but i
need to think something.

to think is to be alive, and
while i don't like being alive,
i like thinking.

The cloud I am looking at
is a pig-bull. The horns
directed to us. The man
next to me is ready to eat.

The woman near me is
describing the grotesque
face of the poor pig-bull. How
she’s glad it’s only a cloud.

The child is imagining taking
a sword to the neck of it. How
the blood spurts in their face
and coats with victory.

How to be a basic human being.
It’s funny. The pig-bull is not real
but our desire to ****** a lowly
and defenceless animal is.

I shivered with
pleasured sadness
when she said,
"It's okay, I kinda
guessed." I couldn't
bring myself to open
her message but I
knew what she had sent.

3 months on, the
message is waiting
for me to react on.

Sleep on, forget me.

I know you can't bear
the thought of me
still of existing after
we stopped talking.

I hope your tear
ducts become dry,
because, if you do
cry, then you won't
have any left to
use over me.

But
wishful thinking
can make a person
crazy. I know.