Summer Boy

But through and from between us
there's nearly any air.
My ankles burn my elbows itch;
your hands are in my hair.
Did I tell you I can't handle
skin on skin on skin?
You make me just so worried-
but you know I'll let you in.

Loneliness Dancing

I am loneliness
and I sleep just outside your walls.
I walk the city through, waiting
for that life-shattering moment
when people just like you (my dear)
are cast from hearts and gardens.
You can walk beside me too
but three steps back and ten feet past
because (my darling shady blue)
the earth is not just open.

Nowhere Girl

In the middle of nowhere,
they sat me.
With nothing for miles
and no one at all,
they told me to find
my way home NOW.
I closed my eyes
and found my heart
and gently whispered,
"North."

The Interogation

Skip
Sk-sk-sk-
the records jump
right and wrong
can
-'t help you.
"What a prime lie you've got there,"
I say, and
pull the plug, and
break the tapes, and
scream and I am just a
fake.
You have (had?) your records wrong.
I'm not the girl who broke the law.
But tell me,
when you find her,
will you treat her this well?

Distant Darling

The feeling here and there
The mountains, icy knives through frosty pricks
and meadows, darling, with soft green grass
Here the trees are naked
and I fear to leave my room.

Raphael

I sit     examine words as cries
your voice is floating up, up
and away right past my downward eyes.
Hushed struggle from behind the door
the closet rattles on the screen, flashflash
light comes screaming on your floor.
Lion Faux! you shout, spit waiting at
the edge of your lips, and by the life in my bones,
I will not kiss. I say     correct your fatal mistake
"Fauxlion, chéri." But
the teeth are very real indeed.

Galileo

Wishing on the stars we fall
but earth is just a battlefield.
Any man who dreams so tall
has made a deathly deal.

Knots and hiding

I imagine after all this time I've spent thinking, I'd have figured it out by now. Worked the infinite knots into separate lines of logic. But all I've untangled is my fears and failures, and it seems the farther in I go, the more of them I find. I remember from grade four when my teacher was reading us that book about the boy who ran away. In his comfortingly strong voice, he'd said, "And he sat there until every last knot was untangled, braving the winds from the top of the building." I remember picturing myself up there, picking the string like meat on bones, pulling and unwinding until it lay before me, obvious and straight and normal.
The reality I face now is a lot like those winds, fraying my sanity in much the same way the wind would toss your hair. It's unwinding my logic while I work never-ending hours to pull it all together. Maybe the knots are the problem: while I think untangling them will be the very answer I'm searching endlessly for, maybe (just maybe though, because I really can't be sure at all), the knots are what I've tied together all ready, and by untangling them, I'm only making a bigger mess of everything.
What I have figured out is that reality is winding me up until the point where the string snaps, or I go flying. That my loved ones (or twos, or threes) are only being further destroyed because of me, and I'm not helping at all.
I think I have had the answers from the very start. Somewhere that is nowhere, that would hold me ever dearly. A cabin in the woods with all the loneliness I want. That's the only reality that will not hurt, and my instincts to prepare for it have been the only thing I will ever do right.
If I ever find someone who could love me enough to hide out in the cold with me, then I will be happy. Make no mistake; that is something I've been searching endlessly for too. Just...something I never honestly believed I would find.

Notes

"Don't open it unless I'm dead," I say. Every word is what you'll have left to eat away. 
And that is exactly how it should be by now, after all, what else do writers do?
That's my last chance for solace, and the last closure, for you. 

That dream again

Another dream where I'm fearless,
or closer yet to it.
Amends with my old mistakes are made
all congregating in the same general castle.
The stairs are never-ending
up and up crooked edges from wall to wall
and then the purple doorways
with over-sized metal doors.
A million broken school desks
and flutes guitars and notes.
This is the music room, no doubt.
I don't have a music class.
I leave her there, wish her luck.
And again my classes go unattended because
I don't care for their lessons much at all.
She walks me away from room 208
all the way up in the 300's,
and we rush through the halls with their glass doors
and glass rooms and teachers and lines
and tiles.
But then she's gone, because she doesn't belong here.
"Why were you gone?"they ask,
the boys who really fucked me over.
To put it quietly, with shame I say
"I was mentally unstable."
It's sad and pathetic and I go out to smoke
and the school is left once again
restored as the castle I'll never see.

I've had the dream again, you understand.
And every time I do I feel a little more sick.
But what can you do?
We are who we are.

I'm hangin' in there, don't you see...

Someone someone talk to me
Someone someone set me free
Tell me nothing's really wrong
Tell someone's not still gone
Someone someone help me out
Grab my paws, my claws, my snout
Lift the powdered poison cake
Trick the monsters and the hate
Someone someone I'm still here
My world is dark, my thoughts aren't clear
Creepers loom once they've attacked
And I fear I'm being tracked
Someone someone I'm so scared
My legs won't walk I've been impaired
Like there's something in my head
Sane's a sense I lost instead
Crazy nights and crazy days
There's no light in drunken haze
But is it drink or is this drugs?
Lions! and Tigers! and Bears! and Bugs!
Someone someone time is quick
Pull me up out of this trick
Everything's so fuck fuck FUCK
I'm so FUCK I'm giving UP

Dear

You're one of the many ghosts that haunt me, but I suppose I don't mind seeing as I did still get those last fleeting days with you. What we had was something I waited years for. Essentially, it should have been my entire world. 

Should have, but something twisted it's golden little grin, and swept you off your feet faster than the earth could open up to swallow you whole. And I'm often reminded of you in the small, quiet moments. An example is months ago, the walk I took after almost running away for the third time that week. My sister told me to kill myself, I greatly considered her suggestion. 

I know, the air was cold and I'd forgotten a sweater, something I never, ever do. And Calio...I'm not sure if that's how you spell it, but that's how it sounds. He interrupted, asking if I'd mind if he walked beside me. 

One of the nicest and most heartbreaking moments I remember, the same exact way I felt when you Hugged me. I capitalize that word because I consider it the name of one of the most important events in my life. Sure, a hug isn't really much of anything, but that hug brought you into my life, and my life solely. 

Well, the point is Calio spent the hour telling me what a beautiful girl I was. As well as asking why I was still alone. This was after you were gone, of course. 

I remember telling him that I just...hadn't found someone yet, and thinking, well I had, but he's gone. We sat on the rocks near the water and watched the waves collide with stone just below us. And no matter how nice this all was, how candid this moment...it reminded me too much of you. 

The lovely things in life make me want to cry now. 

You really have done a nice thing for me. You know that? You made everything bearable, and then you killed yourself. And no, I can't bare it at all. 

"I have experienced instances where I feel both high (elated) and low (depressed) at the same time."


Dark and dingy 
night and city
happy as it goes.
Light and flying
rope the sky in
of frowns we are composed. 


Tight together
rope around
this is to feel tied down. 
Like an ocean
scattered sailor
it feels like this to drown. 

These words say all the grief I felt when I heard he killed himself. They're telling someone -maybe someone I know, or maybe a complete stranger- that I haven't been all there, since.
They say that it's hard to forget, and impossible to remember.

But Summerland is perfect when you need a break, I imagine. Summerland is the perfect break--

of skin. Or was it air?

Too late

When you get lost like that, you think maybe after a very long while you should call for help. The night sets in with those cold steps and someone's behind you, matching your pace you run.
Breathing comes out in icy puffs the whole world is blue
and you don't see anyone coming to save you.
When you get lost like that you start to imagine all the things you could tell people, and all the lovely, caring reactions you might get. They might ask you how you suffered for so long, so tough. Or if you need them to stay up with you all night. Are you still afraid, they might wonder.
When you're so lost and there's dirt under you nails. Or maybe it's blood, but either way it's filthy like the woods and the dirt paths you're walking. Like the soil that's sinking, and you're drowning. But that's wrong, because drowning would indeed imply that you were fighting in some very small effort. A kick, a scream, even the realization of your metal lungs being heated by dragon's fire as they cave in from trying to be less empty.
At this point it's just numb sinking, a sad acceptance of the fact that you're going under. But hardly sad at all anymore because that was last year's pain.
This year...or has it been longer? Either way there is only fear. That stark, rigid bite on your neck but you can't turn around. For some reason you're stuck in the childish belief that if you can't see it it can't see you.
The same reason you don't look over your shoulder when running up the basement stairs.

You're thinking of all the wonderful things people might console you with if you were to ever get out. And that's pathetic. One hundred percent, of course. But when you're dying you do like to think of all the moments you could have lived.
There's the owls, such lonely sounds at night, with the wolves howling loudly. And that's your sorrow echoing from the pain you can't seem to feel.

But maybe I shouldn't be saying you. Maybe, in reality, I should be saying me. Maybe no one else will ever think this, these thoughts. But I'd like to think that no matter how big the labyrinthine, with it's winding trees and paths that lead you in circles...no matter how big it is, or how small, there are others scattered around in there, somewhere.
Maybe I'm not alone in here. And even if there isn't a chance for me to ever find someone...

Even if it would take a million years I don't have, there is that small hope that I could.

Even if it's impossible, hope keeps you going.
And when you're sinking, it is rather nice to believe things could have gone better. It's sweet and mellow to think that your fate wasn't this sod-fucking-terrible.

That you did have a chance, at some point.

But now no one's listening and I guess it's too late.

Fear goes marching on

Stand a little taller on the tips of your feet but

fears goes marching on. 

Wonder how to put the words so

they'll seem a little softer but

left, right, left, right beats softly in your ears. 

Yes sir, I am having trouble

convincing myself to leave the house. 

For now that's a-ok, but

over my shoulder there's screams and there's claws

and do you mind if I run

run run

as fast as I can?

Swallow

Electroden down the miles, windows wide open. Blasting through the signs of happiness, we're all going to hell.

I suppose

Yes, it is hard. Even just living, there's so much baggage that comes along with life, and I'm sure after a while you'd love to jump on a train and leave it at the station. Move on, so to speak. But there's so much anxiety in just doing that. In leaving everything behind. Everything. 
That's where your possessive fears come along, reminding you of that time in childhood when you lost your favourite toy and never got it back. When it was gone forever and you cried because you loved it, even if sometimes the batteries would run out, or the wheels would break off, or the paint would chip. Because that was your favourite, and it meant so much to you. Even if a hundred or so other kids had one just like it, yours was special. 
That's when you're thinking about pulling out of the station for good, no time to turn back, and seeing all your things in a lonely little pile on the grey concrete of the stop. Seeing people walk around it, completely ignoring it, because it isn't their business at all. And then you think, you know, well it wouldn't be your business either. Even though you'd feel mildly attached to it, you'd have left it behind. Pulled the trigger, started the car, moved on. 
You'd start freaking out because that was your life. That was your little brother looking up at the train window with lost eyes, unable to see you. That was your older sister crying on the curb, having barely the ability to stand. That was your mom and dad holding each other, tears brimming in their sad eyes. They're all wondering what they did wrong.
You'd see your little sister tug on their shirt, ask, "Where'd she go?"
What could they possibly say to that?
She'd worry, "When will she be back?"
This is your fault. Your mistake, and yet, you can't take it back now and say sorry, or even, "I love you."

So you hoist your baggage over your shoulder, and haul it everywhere you go because what if you lose it? What if you leave it somewhere and it just disappears? What if it's stolen from you, from right under your fingertips, and you don't have the time to say goodbye?
You carry it tightly in your arms, your knuckles turning white. Always on edge, shaky. You're getting exhausted, and half of it, you don't even want to hold onto. But your brother's attached to your sister's attached to your friend's attached to your memorie's attached to your school's attached to that party's attached to that night. Cling, cling, cling, everything's roped on to something else, and if you want any of it, you take all of it.

No, there's a problem with all of this. You need to let go of some things, and hold on to others. But first you need to untangle the mess, figuratively speaking. Let lose those parts of your life you don't need to carry in your heart. I mean, if you don't love it dearly, why let it hamper your strength?

The answer isn't running away, because it'll either catch up with you, or you'll lose everything. But letting go is a complicated process that takes years, and years, and years. Letting go takes holding on, and having something worthwhile to leave behind.
So while it's hard to carry, just sit yourself down when you have time, or you're far too tired to continue, and work it all out. The knots will come undone if only you keep picking at them. And once those bad parts are free, simply let them go.
It is you that's holding on, but that's a good thing, remember. Hold on for your dear life, because it is dear. And once you've packed your memories and belongings into a comforting note to leave on, board the train knowing that this time, you're ready. Knowing you've gained enough strength to carry it all out, enough knowledge to know what to hold, and enough love to keep it all together. Board the train knowing you've done what you needed to do, and you're stronger now. And whether or not better things await, you can go to sleep, and finally get some rest, without nightmares just over your shoulders.
Because death is certainly the end, but there was a beginning, and a wonderful in between. A very intelligent stranger once said, "Every song ends, but is that any reason not to enjoy the music?"

I always knew

24, 25, 26.

We're all sevens and eights, while we're all nines and tens.

But we're going on 19, we're boarding on death. To get to 78 we'll have to die to make it right.

Sat by a pond. 

We get one chance

Fabricate your words in a noose around my neck.
It's working.

Wolves

Oh, he's a dirty little wolf, isn't it? Cheater's paws, long sharp teeth?
There's a fact in here somewhere, I just know it. Buried under his thick fur he's carting around his scars and wounds. And under those there's memories. Memories reflected in his wolfy eyes, black, sunken marble holes in the snow of his white muzzle. Ice cold, he's no king of winter. No Jack Frost. He is shoulders shrugging off, ashes flaking to the ground.
Such a dirty little past, he has. Terror in the nights when he was abandoned. His mother never did come back for him, did she? But he trekked on because that's how survival works. He grew strong because weakness was death. And yet...a wolf is a wolf is a wolf.

No, anyone can care.

No, literally

Poison darts my hands and feet

across the sky our eyes should meet.

Blues and greys upon the water;

eat your words, as you slip under.

But Raphael

There aren't words that will explain this any more than my thoughts can. Something changed. Plenty of somethings. In fact, maybe a few too many. I look for the cues, for those small things no one else notices. I follow social code in an understandable fashion, and everything works out for everyone else.

I'm too practised. Too...too sure, in that unsure way I am. I know what my words will do to people. I know what my actions will result in. I know exactly how I'm supposed to act, and I do. But it's all fake, really, completely fake. And every time I do something how I'm supposed to, for the basic structure, anyway, I lose myself a little further. 

Of course it's driving me crazy. Or not crazy completely. Not that known crazy where you pick apart your skin and run away, or rock back and fourth for hours. While those would be lovely, I'm sure. It's not that at all. 

It's Them. It's them them them them them. It's when I stare at you blankly because there's nothing left there, in that moment. I'm in here. And I want to tell you that. I want to remind you I am in here. 

But here is this fucking practised terror. Stuck in a nightmare of reason and logic. I don't understand it any more than you do, any more than anyone. 

And if you think about it, it's already fucked over. School became too panicky. Far too panicky I almost killed myself, and what does that say about me? I can't make it through a day of it. I already lost that ability. I already lost myself far enough I can't pretend that anymore.

And it seems like I've already broken down, like I'm already not functioning. But this is functioning past 100% for me, inside. Inside it's so much worse off than you can even imagine. And I'm just trying to hold myself together for the next, say...20 years? But I know I'm not going to be able to make it that far. 

It's a skull and cross bones warning label that you ripped off your drink. It's because we all age too fast and get to that sick point of delirium. Only some go faster than the speed of light, their skin peeling off with every second, it's so bad. And that's not possible. We're told repeatedly that that's not possible! But who are you to say the cause can't be what comes next? The effect is this, and this is all backwards, isn't it? Where did that logic go to? We miss it so, don't we?

But I don't. 

I don't, you don't understand at all. Neither do I, and it's starting to really freak me out. Yes, I am starting to hear you again. Yes, I am almost even seeing you. But I'm not listening I'm not looking. 

It's perfect, because after everything, this is what I wanted, isn't it?

But I would rather be dead than amount to anything, if this is what it takes? I would rather be dead and not go through this at all. This...sorry. I'm terribly sorry. I mean life. This isn't a cycle inside of life's cycle. This is life's cycle. 

There's yours and there's mine and I'd rather not have been born at all. It's so much harder to stand at all by this point. It's so much harder to even smile, and quite frankly, I don't see a point for faking anything anymore.

But I don't know how to let any of it out. 

It's like a balloon stuffed with too much air. Only the air is poison. And the balloon is a person. And in all logic, a person should be dead after consuming that much poison. Frankly, in all logic at all, they'd already be dead after a single drop of such. 

But they're not dead. Somehow they're still moving automatic. They're an automative, now. 

Tap, tap, tap on the glass with their glossy smile. Eyes unmoving, wax characters can watch you until you're out of view, past their horizon. I can only see so far it's not my choice they trapped me. 

Ok. So now can you please let me go? How many more years of this. 

I'm not the strings on my arms and legs, I'm not this at all. But why would you look further into a wooden doll when it's obvious what's inside?

Wood, wood, and more wood. 

That's not a person at all. And you don't listen when I scream, "PLEASE. I'm inside."

You don't listen when I ask for help out, instead move on, peer into the next glossy-eyed creature. When you see a puppet, a toy, a slot where you put your coin, where they smile. The card drops out reading your fortune, but perfectly, perfectly, nothing of them.

Look farther. 

The end of the world

Flaming tire's fall
when it's the end of the world.
The monsters come out from under your bed
your closet.
The insanities SCREAM
while the hospitals go blank.
When it's the end of the world,
people eat other, chasing after you when you're just trying to find shelter.
They're all mad.
But the game's over.
There's no time for tears
or wailing.
The world ended when you weren't looking
and now you need to die quietly, thanks.

Bloody bloody bloody bloody
we're all together
stung by the hornet
by the wasp
we're all cut, we're all tossed.
Drunk too much, we can't remember
how we got to dark lights flashing
how we fell down that hill
how we can't climb back up.

How we CAN'T climb back up.

Them.

We love you, They told Sophie, taking her porcelain hand in their claws. She watched the razor iron close around her skin, red lines from stress forming on the surface. She'd been listening too intently to her silence, and had, in turn, found Them. Or rather, They'd found her.
We love you ever so dearly, my sunshine, and we do recall that a certain game is in order.
Sophie feared keeping her eyes open, feared seeing their terrible teeth and leery grins. Yet she found it the hardest task to close her eyes shut even a little, even at all.
"What game?" she sighed, letting her voice spike to a whisper.
Ah, darling. What game indeed? There are many. Mr.Wolf is wondering when next he will eat, you know. Or perhaps a nice try of hide and seek, we have the greatest forests and grandest trees, you are aware, love. 
"Why don't I just bring some treats to Grandma, have the Wolf escort me there anyhow?"
Sophie knew their games. She'd played them her whole life. In nightmares, Folklore, Faerie tales. In songs she used to sing, in hushed voices like the wind. Every child knew these games, of course. These were their upbringing, being warned not to walk too deep into the forest, not to trust every sweet old lady. Evil Witches, Goblins, Elves awaited at the end of the tunnel. Of course, of course darling Sophie knew.
"So why don't you just pick a game then. Follow the leader off the cliff, Simon says jump?" Sophie yawned. "But do hurry."
They snarled amongst themselves, hushed voices barely growling. There was enough darkness in their eyes to ward her off, but Sophie knew it could only be a dream. What a concept, she mused. 'Knowing'.
How true indeed, our child. Nothing is so solid that it cannot change. Nothing is absolutely knowable.
Sophie glanced into their eyes, lured forward by an electric pull that shocked her entire system when she stepped too far away.
Dear one, we've chosen the perfect game. Do you agree to play until the game is won, on your own accord, so long as whatever happens is no one's fault save your own?
Sophie shrugged. "So long as we hurry. I do have a date with Death in a few decades." 
Then it is settled.
The larger ones formed a circle around her, taking her hands in theirs, if you could call their claws such things. Each one was different, but dark. They were like a group of ill-formed Monsters, all clothed in the same fashion, were that fashion darkness. But a cold, sinister darkness with a wild scent to it. Almost as if it was brisk enough to touch, thick enough to hold. Every single one was different from the others, possibly their odd-fitted voices, so soothing and light; possibly their skin, stretched tight over their bones, which in some, bent at strange angles that looked wildly painful. Sophie couldn't tell, Sophie couldn't care.
They bread fear with each step, with each word terror climbed up your spine on all fours. Their breathing was so silent, sometimes she thought They weren't breathing at all.
Sophie, our sweetness. What game would you prefer we start with? By day-break, we plan to wake, and walk you home so no one else may catch you. You do remember you're ours, do you not?
Sophie just smiled. "Yours, all yours, forever, ever more. My soul I give, my dreams I sell, to your knocking at my door. If I should die, before I wake, I hand myself to you. You are mine, and I am yours, for this my fate, I drew." The quote tasted copper solid in her throat. She'd drawn it from a cap in the hospital one night when she'd been ill with a fever. In her sleep, she'd read the words aloud and murmured deep promises by the moonlight in her window.
Well done. Now hurry along Time is precious, Faux-Lion. 
"My name," she smiled. "Your gift to me, I won't forget."
And together, they stepped into the darkness that surrounded Them constantly. The settings changed, and Sophie couldn't help but find that comfort in the rearrest place of all; her deepest, darkest fears.

Least of her worries

What once will almost kill us
will haunt us forever more.
What once will almost kill us
is crawling on the floor.
What once will almost kill us
is testing our alarms.
What once will almost kill us
is what forces our disarm.

What once sent us in shivers
down the murky city wall
What once had us in trembles
had us feeling truly small
What once was always watching
we knew enough to run,
what once could almost kill us
is ready for some fun.

Who dares to go right there,
that place beneath your crest.
Where family names are branded;
gold upon your chest.
Who dares to walk upon it,
test the waters with their ship.
The water's fire, the boat is wood
you wish you may, you tip.


To win you have to conquer,
through brimstone and through hail.
The storm's all blood, the mast is down,
the winds render you frail.
To win you must have speed,
and lies are quick to follow.
Monsters lurk where you can't see,
where your heart is dark and hollow.

But remember ever dearly
that it's possible to do.
The game is dark and sinister,
but your loved ones need you.
Your heart is hollowed, inside in
your thoughts are based in Must.
But love is what will conquer all;
in love, you need to trust.

Lucy's frown

Lovely little Lucy
had the slightest of a frown.
Every time she tried to smile,
the smile would fall down.
While other girls skipped their rope,
and sang their songs with glee...
Past her slight and ever-frown,
young Lucy could not see.

A weak and Wary Lie

Slight like a flower
like a wilted little plant
Swaying with the wind
the trees, and with the chant.
Slim as brittle sticks
freeze in winters chill
What dark thoughts lurk
under her window sill.
And upon her feather hands
sink wounds, oh fresh and old
Scars and cuts among skin's graves
too weak to bear the cold.

Cold like an icicle's hug
her smile holds no more beauty.
What child should ever live to know
that life is--

Forgetful minds let loose
the winter setting in
under, under her skin she cries
she cannot see; it's dim.
The water rising past
her breathing and her ease
the water rises past her eyes
her lungs p-panic seems---
panic sets in
with the darling winter
freezing out the warmth of
family isn't love, no longer
harmful thoughts are here.
Love, my dear, your life is just
a weak and wary lie.

The why

Do it for the look

that's just beyond your reach.

Do it for religion

for everything they preach.

Do it for your family

for your friends and for your cat.

Do it for everyone

that's ever called you fat.

Do it for your schoolmates

for your teachers and your thighs.

Do it for that feeling

that is falling asleep at night. 

Do it for your skin

that is stretched beyond repair.

Do it for your pretty face

for that glassy eyed stare. 

Do it for those hallways

that creak under your step.

Do it for your sleeping bags

so they'll never have to stretch.

Do it for your family

buying all that food.

Do it for those red train seats

so you can spare some room.

Do it for your thoughts

that begin to croak and grumble.

Do it for your shaky voice;

so you'll never again stumble. 

Do it for your smile and frown

for that perfected little sneer.

Do it just to know you can

so you keep it up for years.

Do it for your self and you

to wake and not regret.

Do it so the lakes and oceans

have nothing to render wet. 

Do it so you're walking through

mist and you are foggy.

Do it so the rain will never

ever make you soggy.

Do it for your art

for your stories and your rhymes. 

Do it for your little words

so dark they're lost in time.

Do it for your age

for your generation's rep.

Do it so you can walk

without ever hearing your step. 

Lethargic

Thoughts we'll hold captive so no one else will feel their sting.

Truths

True, true, true. Tell the truth, silence, tell the truth.

Whisper to the silence, it's aaalways listening. 

Wrong.

Tell the truth, tell the truth, be as honest as you can...

Quiet words scream no. 

Hushed cries subside

we're silent.

Dead silence.

Drop, everything falls, 

colliding with your 

closed lips, stitched tight,

we won't say anything

regarding that night.

True, true, true.

We're all liars anyway

at some point

we all cover the truth. 

Oh, we're breaking down

Gun sounds, bang!
Camera flashes flashes. 
It's the don't-look-over-your-shoulder,
bolt-up-the-stairs,
can't seem to shake the feeling that something's still watching you.


The gun sounds loud, bang bang bang!
You run, but you run from
not to.

No predetermined destination
overrun your estimation
lines are turning blurry grey
Bang, BANG DEAD,
concrete, lay.

Your head ...
your head hur...hurts. Your head is
hurting and
oh wait.
What just flashed?
Who was that?
Some bloody fuck brought his sodding little camera.


Flash, flash flash flash.
FLASHFLASHFLASH!

You cough.

They said they'd be ready. Be waiting.

Now they're on my heals and I gotta keep going otherwise...-oh, don't look back.

It's like heights. If I don't look down, I won't scare myself into falling. If I just don't look down...
but it's so high up and I'm curious.

With a simple analogy on life, I flee the crime scene, as always.
But I'm in no danger just yet. Wait 'til I run out of breath
to worry.

A title

It's on the lines that they catch your breath, on the script you trip. It's the words written on paper thin, we're watching you stumble, you itch.
It's on your skin as a bright red flush, it's on your hands you bleed. It's the voice falling from poison prick, we're encroaching, and we've been freed.

Someone else

And my skin, how time passes when I leave you behind.
My heart, how days go by when I forget.
The pieces left on the bedroom floor for someone else to clean up.
Sometimes we say this isn't our life
and life is indeed much easier.

Educated

And here, they call us liars when we say what's on our mind.

Higher

"Just take the recommended dose," really means, "but if you take more you'll be flying."

Can't swim out, don't know where

Just fifteen miles from
shore we're sitting and laughing because
the sun is shining the water's cooling
the black pools are hidden we
no, we can't help but take pictures
we look so perfect
so picture, perfect loves
that we're waiting for our ship to sail in but
it broke down and sunk just fifteen miles from where we can see
so We'll keep waiting.

There's birds flying in the sky
and trees, a forest filled with berries
and dark caves we'll sit
we'll make a fire together
and sit around, singing
those songs with music from
outta this world they're waiting
just past our reach, we're screaming
the monsters just past the glow of the fire
in the trees watching
We're scared.

Our tents cold walls, so thin we're
curling up together to get warm and
pulling the fabric over our heads we
close our eyes and drift off
the noises won't
touch us We're dreaming.

The charcoal embers smoky
we wake in freezing fits of dreams
smiling we're holding hands and warm we
get out look around and, look, see
the cliffsides the mountains it's
quiet so peaceful we're
heading down to the water's edge
we're waiting for our ship to sail in.

Guitars strumming laughing
making up stupid lyrics for
each other's theme songs and
it's cute, we're cute
too cute to realize what our fate is
so we dunk each other under water
and scream so loud the trees shake
in a good way, shimmy shimmy
we're really finding ourselves out here
two more days won't Kill us.

In the forest dirt floor walking
picking fruit from trees we're talking
eating in a quiet lightning, we
tell each other exactly what's on our minds
it's interesting to find such
kind thoughts we're sadly common
enough in the fact that
our shoes are boots
we love them too
just as people always do
we
believe this isn't going to Kill us soon.

On the mountain side we're sitting
watching sunsets rise we're dreaming
what our future's like we're waiting
Our ship is just a day late it's
no big deal we've got time to waste
and time to spare we'll wait for fate
but that's what's going to kill us.

Days alone and thinking
we're waiting for a dream in
the far off past it's gone it
slipped just from our fingers
we're
stuck on a paradise
waiting for everything we hate.

Lights go out just waiting
behind those dark trunks with claws they
grab my neck and pull me back
you scream
no one's there to help you, you're
so alone I'm crying I
feel the skin rip tight
too high
we fall from the edge of the cliff
the sunset's wallpaper glow
we're shadows in the sky
we're trying not to die but
they grab you by your arms
they make you hold their gun
sharp and hot it burns your hands
it blows my brains
just outta this world,
fifteen miles off from
where, what can we see now that we're dead?
Our ship left us
waiting.

Ties

Ties are nothing but flimsy string
we cut with every slice but
Ties are rope, iron thread, slice your fingers
slice your head.

Cut those ties
Cut those ties they cut you back
Slice, slice, slice.

We entertain the idea

Lovely bones lure me forward;
That's really not fair.
Death, your gracious, how can I resist your offer?

Hide and seek

I never had the patience for hide and seek. I didn't want to waste time finding people, and I sure as hell didn't want to spend hours hiding until they forgot about me.
But I finally understand now. The purpose of that game, I finally understand why.

Because it's practice. A test run. You're waiting until you find the perfect spot, you're waiting until they give up looking. You're waiting, you're waiting until they forget about you, until they move on. You find somewhere they'll never think to look and sit your sad self down.
You wait until everyone else is dead.

And then once the game's long over, you get out and look around. When the coast is clear, when there's no one left to find you...you've won.

This will be the ultimate game of hide and seek. I'll die waiting.

Watch out

Ground in gravel
ground in dirt
smiles a marvel
words, they hurt.
Ground in salt
in wounds in blood
ground in hugs
and smiles and love.

It hurts to say
what I will
but the words fall out
and I am still.
Deny, deny
where did we go
How'd I --christ
I'm not a hoe.

It hurts to fall
under water
laughing, HA
a smile per slaughter.

Deny, deny
it ever happened
life is life
never, captain.

Why wait?

After all this, I don't know.
I can't be bothered?

It's all pointless anyway. It's all monsters in hiding, but they're waiting,
and why make them wait any longer?
It's just time, and once you're past it it's like it never even existed.
So in that sense the past doesn't matter, but the future doesn't exist, so that doesn't matter either.
All we are is the present, and the present is utter shit.
The present is heart heart beating
waiting to be
knocked out
to be
killed.
The present is hiding from monsters who could be anywhere.
Why hide?
Why wait

It's not going to matter in a thousand years,
and the time will really fly once it's over.

Smile and repeat.

Force

Force. 
Forced to wake up each morning. Forced to get dressed and leave the house. Forced to step onto the crowded bus and walk past those people you were forced not to talk to anymore.
Forced to take the underground train to school. Forced to go to class, to sit, to listen, to go to class, to sit, to listen, and repeat. Forced to complete assignments, to answer questions, to learn. Forced to write essays and reports, to take tests, to let them judge you on their flimsy piece of paper...

We are forced to live.

Me, though. I am forced.
I am forced to walk past it everyday. To remember. I am forced to think about it, to confront the thoughts I'm hiding from.
I'm forced to smile when told to nod on cue to agree and move on. 
I don't agree, I don't.
But what's that silly little word that follows? Force.

I was forced to lose something I didn't want to lose and grow up, fast. I was forced to keep quiet about those bruises in the past. I was forced to say this, to say this, to say that. But fucking force can't control what I think about that. 


We're forced onto the platforms, one-by-one, pushed to the edge. We fall a step lower and our knees bleed, gravel and dirt ground in. We're forced down one more level, two more levels, three.
We're forced and forced until we're so close to the bottom that they don't have to force us anymore. We look up at the dark layers above us, no more light seeping in than comfort, and we step off the edge blindly, hardly caring what we hit when we fall.

We're forced to live until we're forced to die, and they say, you know, that that's supposedly life.
But life should be choice, should be freedom.
Freedom is courage to climb back up.

My hands are shredded.
I can't.

Get a scratch
on your skin
let it burn
let it sting.

But what about ^

Sticks in rows in
an arrow on the dirt pointing
towards where we're headed
in the end
we'll fall off the edge of the cliff but
that's what warriors do, anyway.

It's our life or theirs and you can
hell bets we'll try,
won't we.

Oh the places

Don't go back
Can't go back,
they're all waiting.

I'm not scared I swear
I'm terrified.

I lost you to distance. Out of everything, I lost you to fucking distance.

Name called

"Nova."
My throat dies, my knees shake.
Terror-wrought, I stand and walk.
If I am to stumble,
if I am to trip,
they're all watching.
If I am to cough,
if I am to choke,
they're all listening.

They're gonna tear me to shreds.
They're gonna eat me alive.
They're gonna bury my skin,
they're gonna cut me in fives.

Can you hear my heart?
My thoughts are wild.
Can you feel my fear?
I'm just a sodding child.

Run

Run before they get too close
run before they find you're a ghost.

Quiet right before the blast

It's quiet, right before the rage
the storm
the age
of time and all
that's gone, we're gone
and it's too quiet to hear your own thoughts.

I feel like a giant let-down
flying down the road of fucked and dead
we're all dying, you know.
I'm surrounded by shadows
but not mine
because we left a while ago and
the sun's not shining here
the sun's not shining here anymore
and we wonder why.

It's silent, right before the war
Right before the guns go off
before the bomb lights
flies
before the world dies,
the quiet before the storm
We wonder
what happened when the light went out that
we're all too sane to think too straight but

The noise that follows is
so loud it's
too bright to think it's
too dark to smile and
when the sunlight's gone we
scream
We cry
we're all hurting on the
inside
But that's fine
for a while, we're gold
ace great
we've got guns and
sleeping gear,
food in a pack
that'll keep for a while, years.

And if we don't wake,
it's good because we're all dead here
anyway.

I heard

I heard you got your heart broken again.

See, and that's another thing.
You shouldn't leave it out in the open to get smashed. You've got to lock it up and throw away the key, right? In dungeons, in dark corridors where no one will go looking.
You've got to ...
Stop letting people let you down. Stop caring.

A memoir

72 pieces of paper
to tell everyone what my life was like
when I'm dead.

Once

Just once I'd like to ...I don't know, feel loved?

Just once, so I can see what I'm missing. 

Empty thoughts

I was sitting in my bedroom alone,

covers balled up around my fists.

No one else had come home that day,

and I was in a particularly bad state of mind.

That's the day I thought about my thoughts

and I decided they were empty.

"Tag, you're it," says Death.

Pin-prick icy air through the fabric of my shirt

Snow falling in the edge of my vision

Shouts behind me to "Wake the fuck up!"

I smile. 

It's a barrier around my skull

A line between everything and me

Calls from around the forest to "Run, holy shit, run!"

I sit down, back against a tree-trunk

Branches pull at my hair

Snow melting in through my clothing until I'm shivering

I'm shivering

Shivering

No one stops to find me

I close my eyes and

let the world cloud over to 

a bright winter morning

until my eyes won't open anymore. 

A short distance

Barely, barely how slight your love
and as I am, it's hard to breathe
Barely, baby, soar straight above
these scars we sow are hard to see

Barely, barely, how long the time
and since we've hugged I can't keep warm
Barely, baby, this darkened line
across my skin is just my thorns

If you really knew me...

The fact is, that won't ever happen. I can be honest with everyone, but I'm still pretending.

I'm pretending, and I'm really, really good at it.

My front goes up, though. I tell you my secrets, and you're set. You think you know everything because I've never lied. 

But the fact is, the more I tell you, the more I'm covering up.

I was raped, I cut, I burn, I cry. I hurt, I drink, I smoke, I want to die. What could be worse than that?

There's everything inside.

And you're never getting in. 

We forget

Who can help but be upset?
We're all going to die.

Yes, but we've living too, you know.

Let. Down.

Once, just once, I would like things to end up happy. No, not things. me.
Just once, I'd like to be happy.

But tomorrow night I'm getting fucked out of my head.
Completely out of my head, and for however long I can stay out, I'll forget and things will be okay.
Just like he used to always say, "You're okay."
But those words were hopeful, not truthful.

I am not okay.

Slut

I've lost myself to the world of she's such a slut, painfully washed up on the shores of hey little lady, sand scratching into the wounds of the nasty little Ow, OW!'s.

Wolf calls and sneering and names and touchy-feeling. 

I've stepped into a skin I've never worn before, arming myself in the easiest armour there is to wear. And it's not fair for everyone else who's used to the game, because I forgot to read the unwritten rules. I don't know which side to walk on, which words to smile at, and who to love. 

The screaming and the pounding, everyone else is used to. The pain and the loneliness...everyone else has accepted and moved on from. 

Those lights at night on the street corners beaming, everyone else has sunglasses that I can't see. 

It hurts my eyes. 

I'm no good at this.

I only look the part; my mind's too broken to play it. 

What's on my mind?

Sails across the horizon, yellow green and blue.

Red stripes, white lines, water lapping up the side of the boat. I watch your choppy hair fall in short, brown time-lapses. Small freckles across your nose, a smile brighter than the sun. 

The boat rocks back and forth, a motion I've grown accustomed to being safe. 

You're laughing, I'm laughing, and we're sailing into the sun set, yet... neither one of us is happy, and we wonder why?

Because it's fake. 

You're dead, and I hate myself. 

I'm not going to make the first move. 

Black tights, ripped
along the knees and sides, cut
along the feet and skin, dirt
can't help but seep in, blood
staining your hands and neck, you
run to the nearest house, scream
please, help you out, they
lock the doors, no
way will they help you today. 

Terrible

Okay, so, I get it.
I get that you're all fucking perfect. That you know exactly what to do, where to go. I get that you've got flaws and insecurities. I get that you're happy anyway. I get that you walk the halls knowing where the fuck you're going, with friends and whatever-the-fuck-else-you'll-have.
I get that you have off days, where everything is utter shit, but... is it really utter shit?
No, well, yes.
But you don't get it.

I walk the halls with a slight limp, because the bandage wrapped around my ankle only absorbs half the pain, and I still feel the burning. I don't know where the fuck to go, even if I've got a map and a schedule; I'm still. fucking. lost. I've...well, yeah. No shit! I've got flaws and insecurities. I'm built of them, one problems stuffed and glued onto another, holding me together just-barely so you've got to be ever-so-careful when you speak to me, because I could fall apart completely at the slip of a word.
And...well, it's sad. It's sad because I don't really get it at all.
I understand you're all completely different from me. I understand you're all happy at some point, you're all whatever and that keeps you fine. 
But the fact is I'm not whatever.
I'm just...I'm...

I don't even know but I hate every second of it, and every time I go to sleep, there's no sodding way I want to wake.

Why.
That's my question.
Why can't I be fine-just-fine? Why can't I have one day where words come normally, and I don't have to think in overdrive just to say fucking hello!?
This is ridiculous.
Pathetic.

I'm terrible.
Fucking...terrible.

When you're tired the sun burns.
When you're tired the sun burns your skin.
DEAD GIRL WALKING - when you're tired, the sun burns your skin. 

And I'm happy

When you're happy the sun shines in a different way.

Back to the basics

Grab my hand and pull me along and say my name and sing me a song
and walk with me and you'll go slow and you'll jump up while I stay low.
Grab my wrist and start to run hold it tight and we'll have fun
and plant a smile right on your face and take too long to match my pace.

We are fleeting we are ghosts we are drinking down the coast
We are terror we are fear we are horror in the theatre
We are laughing much too loud we are giants in the clouds
We are dying we are dead we are living, go to bed.
We're not living we're not dead, we're all living in your head.
Just like dreams and just like films
We're all too grainy for the kiln.
We are nothing set in stone, we are paper, we are bone.
We are too cold for the fire, we are plotting, we conspire.

But we're laughing much too loud
and we're all sitting on a cloud.
We're all crazy in our minds
we're all taking up your time.

Mustn't see inside the book too far in to take a look.
Words are coded, words are feared.
We're all safety silent here.

So you'll be happy when I'm dead. 

Reality is...

There's something etched in the excitement of your words that I can't make out,
but I know it's going to be important.
This year is already set in stone and
I'm fucking scared.

I know now.

I don't want to talk about it.
I wish you'd trust that I can handle it myself
and stop reading this,
because it's not fair of you to shelter me.

You're supposed to be
my mother.
Not my therapist,
and anyway, I hate those.

Oursee

And in the fields
of grass of dirt
Of dry dirt, dust
of noise, of rust.
And in those fields
we met, we saw
that death, not far
No death's not far.
And in the dust,
we sat, I sat
And you walked up,
and sat, we sat.
And in the fields,
we sat by side,
mind-in-mind, we
would not die.

But sadtosay
you're dead; I'm dead.
Yes sad to say, we're dead.
But in the fields,
of light, of grass,
we met, and
for a second saw
that death was
nowhere near
us.

Kick the habit

Thwap thwap thwap
The blood rises
rushing red
gushing red
(gushing)

The strangeness forms blurry shadows in your mind, running
to the cuts and
wounds.
It's the "Are you okay?"
But you know
all pain aside
these were not their stones to throw.

Ivory

Green grass

the darkly attuned radio whispering

last chances four

us to speak up.

Green grass

the light notes of an iron-wrought instrumental

and we hum along;

we harmonize the pain just fine.

Green grass

staining the backs of our white shirts.

No complaining now,

we close our eyes and tune in deeper.

A greying frame,

wooden skeleton trough ripped wall-paper violets.

Forget-me-nots have no say, and

the building is abandoned. 

Inhale, exhale.

I wrote you a letter
with all that I mean.

Ripped in half, torn
in a solid square,
I licked the side and
folded it,
lighting the end and
inhaling.
As the words burnt away,
the blue ink (blue, my favourite...ours) burnt to smoke, charring to poisonous chemicals
and
going back into me. Words
where belong, we,
inside.

Fate

Set my coffin in the ground, breaking the fresh dirt with a smooth, sharp razor. The tomb stone cracks and we laugh, laugh, laugh.
I climb in heartily and make myself comfortable, then pull the lid shut, shut, shut.
Darkness envelopes me, and I start crying a little.
I know I'm losing everything,
but I've lost everything.
As the pitter-pitter-pitter of dirt falling on the roof calms my nerves a little, I realize I'm being buried alive. But it's acceptable, because I'm not alive anyway. I died some time ago, and now things are just plain terrible.
"Rest in peace," a voice says next to me, and I look over to see ChrissCROSSES smiling, his hand on mine.
"Chris," I say. "What are you doing here?"
He laughs a little, wiping the tears from my eyes with his thumb.
"I promised," he said. "I'd never leave you forever."
I smile, my eyes a little red, and my nose stuffy.
"I'm about to die," I laugh. "Chris, I'm dying."
He nods his head, grazing his fingers down my wet cheek. "Then we can be dead together."

There's a pause, and I say, "I'd love that."
And that's it.

Oh, September!

Her body thrown against the side of his,
again and again,
and they
went down
together.

Family love

Something malicious in the water we drink
Something sickly in our salty words
Something vicious in the kitchen sink.
Something dark in the burning firs
Something evil in our every move
Something hurtful in our warm, warm hugs
Something tarnished in the silent groves.
Something evil, we're all on drugs.

Girlies

We all find some escape
that makes the pain worth it.

But the higher you get the harder you fall when what's keeping you up
is gone.

Forget

Settle your skin into the nooks of my body and we can fall asleep together. It's the only time I'll feel safe, and we can dream quietly, listening to each other's breathing.
The room's stuffy, and the air's the same air we've been breathing all night, but it's been through our lungs enough times to sufficiently say we're breathing each other's air.
I'd whisper the words I so want to say, but I don't believe in that.
It's just not true.
It's just...god, I- like you.

Waiting

Lights burn your eyes like acid, acid rain. Stepping from the eye of the storm; from the crazy to insane. It's sad because you just can't see to walk in a straight line, but no one's even watching you so you've got lots of time.
Flashing acid circles and pools in great deep cuts. Stinging in the wounds, it just, just hurts so much.
But no one's even listening to hear your terror-screams, so it doesn't really matter if they told you you were free.
See, but being stuck is something that you know you'll grow to like.
Head between the bars and it's easy to reach the spikes.
And that way you can puncture your skin and get out some of the blood,
and scream and cry and fucking yell when the storm turns into flood.

The water rises over your head and you feel your lungs explode.
It hurts so much you'd rather die, but you've got to follow code.
Being strong is such a task that it takes it's toll on you,
and as you bleed you realize that you know just what to do.

Fucking hilarious

Words crash down around me, forming a lump in my throat, so I can't breathe.
Go upstairs, cuts slash down my legs; I can breathe if I bleed.
But it's not enough, see, to settle my bones so
I take it out on my skin and scars
and see how far it goes.

Knuckle-buster

Eyes peering down through the lightning-bug screen,
that's it, right there.
These words hurt
I crumble.

This is where the skin breaks,
the point where the bones crack,
and bounce back to reality for a mere second
But a second long enough to realize
something's wrong.

Remember

Breaking at the 

Bridges where we

Cross our skin with lines.

Torn up 

Torn to 

Pieces, we put together 

and make rhymes.

Breaking in the 

Places where we

Couldn't find our thoughts.

Loud and things got

Louder 'til we're 

completely terror-wrought. 

Sing your words 

Alone, in a darkened forest 

Night. Things will just 

Get darker, 'til there's 

No such things as light. 

Hiding in the tree-arms

To keep those chills away,

we'll have to sing it louder

if we want to see the day. 

But they don't.know

Criss, criss, criss cross for chris who's not here,
cross, cross,
you never believed in crosses,
criss,
criss,
Chris where did you go?

The art of waiting

The act of waiting isn't hard to master.
Take a drag of smoke, inhale faster.
When no one's even looking, light the bastard.
The act of waiting isn't hard to master.

*Pause*

The act of waiting isn't hard to master.
Crumble on the inside just like plaster.
Wait for your very own disaster.
The act of waiting isn't hard to master.

But what's waiting when the weather's a factor?
What's waiting when the air is nice?
The act of waiting isn't hard to master,
but who wants to wait in freezing ice?

Words of wisdom

Sunglasses on and the world can't see you.
You hide.
Sunglasses off and you're exposed.
You duck back,
settle into the corner and
fix your face a little.

You can't be yourself anymore.
That's just not done now.

Why?

Darkness pools beside me,
Hiding the scars along my thighs,
along my neck,
along my wrists.
I trace the face of the razor along my stomach, thinking.

Thoughts bounce back
to the bad days,
edging up closer and closer until
they're touching my cheek.
I suck in my air,
hold it,
hold it,
and pretend there's no 
hands on my wrists
on my wrists
holding on
and making paper
bruises;
purpleblueblack.

They clench down and trap me,
so I swipe at them with my little
metal friend.
They move up to my leg,
sliding up my thigh
to places
WHERE NO HANDS SHOULD BE.
I dig in deep
and get the poison out
so it's clean cuts
and I'm fine. 


It's not about the cuts
themselves.
It's not about the blood.
It's about the pain that swallows up
the dirt in all the mud.

Which leaves me with clean water
to drink for just a day.
But it won't last forever,
so it becomes a game. 


Today you drink and breathe,
tomorrow, you have a choice.
Leave your legs clean,
or banish that stupid voice.

Sailors

Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and.
The boat's gone mad.
The sails aren't even up.
We're trying to stay low to the decks.
Not get caught by the wind.
There's salty air in our noses and lungs.
Vulture-bird cries sounding off the sea.
Pools of blood from where we fell, thrown against the ground and sides of our wooden ship.
But our faces stay rock-solid and sure,
that this is what we want to do with our lives.

We're sailors.
Sail the seven seas and surpass storms.
We are Strong.

Losing things

Dad: We must examine the process of losing things.
Me: Why?
Dad: Think about it. Somewhere along that process, if you broke it down, you'd find the exact moment, reason, and way you lost something. You lost something important, something that mattered. You failed.
Me: ...
Dad: Well, you'd probably be able to stop it next time.

No, I probably couldn't. It's not exactly something you can get back, is it?
And I didn't lose it all on my own, you know...

What talking is

Watch the erosion of my soul,

slow and sure,

but I'm smiling. 

The shovels treck in,

digging out anything important enough

to make me sick in my head. 

It's good, it's okay.

I don't even notice the pain

when the drill starts up and finds

an easy hole in

to my mind.

Pumping out a blended mix

of memories and thoughts into

a large museum, where they'll hold a special showing just for

the people that hate me. 

It's good to know

they care that much as

the seats are full and they're letting people in by the dozen

standing against walls and sitting on laps.

Let's see what she's made of,

voices whisperyell from the audience.

I ponder for a second, until it's gone.

No! Get your own thoughts!

I lost myself somewhere along the inky pages and dark analogies

Night time falls and I find myself reading through my notebooks, trying to see what someone else might.

Who would they think me to be?

Who am I to them?

Frantically; I look through the pages quickly, whipping past the writing I so carefully layed down across the lined pages. All I see is words. Purple, black, and blue ink too, covered from margin to margin. 

Certain pages with faces, both scared and depressed.

But none of it's real enough to me. 

I grab my pen, write out six, seven, twenty three more lines.

None of it's real enough.

Four more, six more, nine more lines. Twelve words here, then seventeen. The more there is the more it says, right? The more words the bigger the explanation the more I am to the world.

Even though I'm not real enough either.

I wonder what someone reading this might think.

Who I am to them.

But I know it wouldn't matter, because these are just words and there is no person behind them. No feeling, no reality. Just words, no pain.

None of it's real so you can stop caring now. 

None of it's real, right?

Things always go to such complete shit it's almost funny.

Something's wrong

Thoughts pounding around, empty. Meaningless chatter. Those thoughts are fucked.
Head's spinning, body's spinning, going to fall sideways and hit the ground so hard everything will be dark.
Can't eat anything, it'll come back up. Revolted.
Head aches hard, twisting around.
The skull cracks and brains fall out, but you can still feel everything. Glassy eyes, closed by hands cold.
Dirt falls in around you, spilling over your rigid body.
Move your hands up, try to. Try to hold your head together, stop the pounding. Stop the shaking, rattling up around you as everything surrounding crumbles.

"Are you okay?" someone asks, placing their hand on your arm for support.
You look up, startled. Head spins, spins, SCREAMS. Swaying back and forth, the lights dim.
"Fine," you say. "I just..."

...Gotta fall over and play dead.

Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.

Stick the needle in my eye
This will hold it off tonight
Crying out in fear, not pain
Searching for the cause at blame.
Knuckles bruised and bloodied in
Tiny cuts and tiny sins
Each ring sounding off a sound
FUCKING FLYING; hit the ground.
Nails too long to grab a hold
Get the shivers when it's not cold
Tell them things are going well
Seems that's just why I fell
To the bottom, I am stuck
Too banged in, all fucked up.
That's just landing, broken in
hit glass sheets much too thin

Crossed my heart and I went blind
I was running out of time
Couldn't eat, couldn't try
All I could, was hope to die.

Faeries are devious liars

Today I am a paper bag princess, twirling around in an over-sized tank-top/dress.
It's off-white, with a row of faded flowers along the bottom lining.

I think only of soft touches and song-birds singing; the thick green grass along the valley floor creating a sun-heated bed where I will rest my mind and sleep.
It's so silly to think I've been searching the night-sky for light when daytime comes around every so often. Daytime, where it's bright-blue skies and flittering butterflies in the softcotton voices whispering faerie tales.

I let the silence of my words be a lesson to anyone who meets me.
It's the easiest thing to do, as my voice is too quiet to be heard.

Pointless and alone,
I rest my head and day-dream at night, because no matter how soft the grass, how lovely the night-stories, how warm the air...I cannot fall asleep in this lie.

My thoughts

I realized today how hopelessly sad I am.

I already knew I was sad, I mean, but I realized just how sad I am.
I was talking to someone from Before.
And talking to them, their humour, their happy-life...it all Reminded me.

I remember the times when I was sad over little things. Over losing something like a sweater in a park, or getting in a fight with my friend, or falling off of something and getting hurt.
The days when losing something was not my virginity, when getting in a fight with my friend did not mean they carved my name into their skin with a razor, and I didn't wish to fall off of something and get a cut so big I bled to death.

It's interesting.
I realized that before, if someone told me they sliced their skin up and smeared the blood across the pages in their notebook, I'd be scared. Scared, worried. I'd think they were horribly twisted, before.
But I've done that now. I don't even consider it anything.

Before, I didn't even think it was possible to get so sad you can't cry anymore. I didn't think things like rape happened, really. I knew they did, but they didn't, really.
I didn't think people carved things into themselves, or died, or killed themselves, or got killed in hit-and-runs, or lost friends or craved death or got admitted to psych wards or went to hospitals to be fixed.
I thought those happened, I mean. But not to my life. My life included fighting with friends, going out, having fun and laughing.
It included drinking slushies and going to the beach and for bike rides and hanging out in front of the school.
And talking, and smiling.
And most of all,
being happy.

Now eating is a choice, cutting is a must, talking doesn't happen, simple as that, and everything is fucked.
But not literally.

I was happy before, I think.
I remembered the feeling today.

I think I'm falling apart.

Falling apart, breaking down, deteriorating until I'm completely out of my mind.

I realized how twisted things got without me realizing. How sad, how pathetic.

I realized today that I am nowhere close to happy, to normal, to fine.

I want to kill myself so badly.
That's not okay. 


None of this is okay.
I need to stop.

The art table

I am stencilled into skin, scissors grazing along the cookie-cutter metal.
I made paper promises to My Girl across the art table, holding hands under.
But the paper might burn and the scissors might slip.

We can't lie at the art table, though, because art is everything that's left.
We're a movie, a sad story written on fading pages. In cryptic poetry, leading up to the last paragraph.
But if it fades too quick, no one will read the words we so desperately want to say.

The cold metal is shaped in an angel, supposed to be our saving grace. Looking out for us, but the sharp edges bite into our skin. Red paint pours out in lines and circles across our knuckles and thighs.
We'll use that to paint a pretty picture, and hold it up for the world to see.
We'll be Real Artists, slaving over the art table, all day long, with our paints at hand.
"I'm trying to get the blue paint out," we'll say, not knowing that the soupy air around us is what's really turning our paint to a bloody red.
With this colour, all we can paint is war scenes. Battles and death, you know.
It's not our choice.


At the art table, we pass secret notes underneath, holding them in our warm vs. cold hands; together.
The words, images or thoughts encompassed on the paper do not matter.
Really, it's just the fact that we understand.
I know what you mean when you draw a silly crab in red.
It means something's pinching your head between it's fingers, ready to squeeze tight.
But no matter how hard you hold coal, it doesn't change to diamond from it's black ash.

Wintergirls reference.

I can't believe I ran out of answer first.

Sickly smiling.
Did I lie? I think so. I think I was lying when I said I wouldn't, because I will.
I can.
I'm going to.

Yeah yeah yeah whatever

I'm drinking again, I'm going mad.
I'm going to go mad.

Fuck it's so fuzzy, so dark, so poster-ized, pulled down to the bare minimum, so I can see everything but the details, but it's the details I know so well.
What's happened to me?

This isn't me, is it really?

Bad and self-destructive

What's bad and self-destructive?

Drugs. Drugs are bad and self-destructive.
Smoking. Smoking is bad and self-destructive.
Cutting. Cutting is bad and self-destructive.
Drinking. Drinking is bad and self-destructive.
Burning oneself. Burning oneself is bad and self-destructive.
Bruising oneself. Bruising oneself is bad and self-destructive.
Hitting one's head against a wall repetitively.
Taking fire to your skin and not moving it.
Letting yourself fall in with "the bad kids" and finding yourself in sketchy ravines buying drugs.
Exercising until you pass out.
Intentionally rubbing your skin until it's raw.
Slamming doors on your fingers again and again.
Holding ice to your skin just to make it hurt.
Not going to school.
Isolating yourself when you really, really shouldn't.
Hating yourself.

But I don't know. Some of these things aren't all bad...

A poem I wrote while I was away

RUFUSE
the poison
 they say is the cure
  DISARM
   the weapons
     they make you
       use here
         STEP-BACK
             from the cage-walls
                 and try to sit down
                     CLOSE your eyes
                          and rest on the ground.

What does another day mean to you?

There's certainly something profound about waking up, knowing you're still alive.
"Success," you think. "Another Day."

Is something the matter?

Would you know if...

IF, but did something happen?

Thoughts spinning around, around, around, in circles, never ending? 

No, nothing is infinite. This too, shall pass. 

We say that, don't we? 

Sure, but is something the matter?

Thoughts spinning around, around, around, in circles, from POINT A to POINT B. Then, back, and over, because it's the same thought. 

If it ever happened again, why, I just might...

Hey, are you okay?

I'm fine!

On the bus, I tap my foot in slow, small, circles. The girl sitting across the bus from me watches, tapping her finger every time my foot completes a circle.
I wonder, if she's doing that consciously or not, but don't care to ask.
In my head, I see wrists being held down, spread over a pillow, almost-bruises forming where no one's going to look for them. I stop.
"Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it..." My head tries whispering this to itself carefully, easily, with every turn of the foot, but I end up stopping altogether and squeezing my eyes shut tight.
The act itself of closing my eyes does nothing, as far as making it go away goes, but I pretend it does and bite my lip until I feel a sore, raw pain set in.
Then I open my eyes, thankful for the sunglasses I have taken to wearing.

Some things...they hurt more.

Certain words set me off

Like fireworks, and all you need is a tiny little flame to send explosions up.
Only the explosions are silent and hidden, and only really inside of me.

But they show.
If I wore shorts, they would show.

It hurts less if you do it yourself, I've found

Fear the world, young believer.
It's going to break you one day, and if you're already scattered about in small pieces, you can at least escape it.
Break yourself, so no one else can.

I'll be gone for a little while, I think.
I don't know what to ask of you, but I'm just telling you I'll be gone.

In the spare time, feel free to message me.
On facebook, or leave comments.
I like coming home and seeing people haven't forgotten about me, but if you choose not to, I understand.

Au-revoir.

Break even

You ever felt so insecure that you 

sat alone, staring at your hands

and picking at your fingernails?

Ever felt so lost that you didn't even try

to figure out where you where, even 

though you had a map with you?

Ever felt so disoriented, that you stumbled

out of bed and fell flat on your face?

I have, 

and I haven't.

The possibilities are infinite, but do they

divide evenly between positive

and negative?

I'm wondering.