voicesLast night I dreamtThat I had buttons for eyesAnd they told me I couldn’t cry no more.
TogetherYour heartstringsAnd mineAre intertwinedAnd I feel like even if we wanted to grow apartThatWe simply wouldn’t be able to.
RosaWe are like a roseYou’re the petalsAnd I’m the thorns.
SheShe wears a different colored and patterned undergarments which never fails to baffle those who may catch a glimpse of one or the other, if not both.She walks as though no one acknowledges her existence, as though she is but a ghost in a sea of living, breathing humans.She doesn’t know how much attention she draws to herself. She is ignorant in that regard but not in others.Her legs are covered in scars and bruises consistently and so she believes she isn’t beautiful, because who wants an abused doll?A doll, who, is afraid of intimacy and who doesn’t know what it feels like to be loved- despite her past filled with suitors, but they lied about such precious things.She wonders if she should seek out those who are broken like her or perhaps strive for those who are “whole”.She focuses on the smaller things of the bigger picture, silently painting the bigger picture on the ceiling of her skull.She wants to travel the world and see with her own two eyes
but there is nothing you can say nowWhen you returnDo you think you could take some of your precious-not-to-be-wasted-time to say hello?When you leftIt was almost literally without-a-traceAnd you left a note; one of those shitty little notes“Don’t worry about me I’ll be fine” with “but most importantly you’ll be fine without me”Written in-between each individual letter of your goddamned words.
Hello, I'm Me- Nice To Meet YouI stand in the rain- until I’m soaked to the bone with the scent of itUntil my clothes stick to my skin and it’s uncomfortable to peel them offI crawl out of bed at 2:33 am just to go look at the stars- even if I’m too tired to name themEven if my hair is still wet from my shower and the tips start to freeze because it’s under 20 degrees FI walk with my hands grazing the branches of trees- lips turned up the cornersLips turned up at the corners because I get along with nature better than I do with humans- -I give way too much ‘change’ to veterans asking for money- even though I know they may be lyingEven though they may be, but what if they’re not?I listen to cashiers as they spill their tales of bad days across the scanner- as they scan 10 cans of cat foodAs they scan 10 cans of cat food, I smile brightly- one that somehow reaches my eyes- and wish them a better tomorrowI visit my town’s Radio Shack way too often- the two freq
Happy To Be AliveI breathe in deeplyInhaling the fresh scent of moss after rain-I open my eyesTurning my face skyward to soak in the light of the sun-&& I smile.
Darkness to LastI have trouble swallowing the words youAll too eagerly whisper into my earsSo easily are they saidI can’t help but wonder if this- if us- is a script; one that you have memorizedOne that you have collaborated with others onOne that I was kept in the dark aboutWhere I am merely the clueless actress who is wondering about your lines.
UntitledI'll forg/et/ive you.
insomniaIn a world infested with the undead, peace is a thing of the past. We're traveling in a pack, nightmares robbing us of any sleep but the madness is divine.
Faery CirclesI watch the modern world pass me by, stretching bark-hardened arms--broken at the elbows, ligaments torn, fingers splayed in all directions--in a balmy breeze. Centuries ago, I stumbled into a faery circle; I wonder how many lost souls, like me, are still screaming.
catharsis.i.The devil watched me dreaming,kissed my wristsand painted my lips with blood.ii.I bartered for my place in heaven,but I was buried too deepto be heard.iii.He pushed meout to sea and Ivaliantly tried to drown.
desolateyou are a broken house with smashed windowsand ivy growing between your fingersyou are fragile and with everycreaking footstep on the stairs you pray so hard that you have let the right one inthere will be people,people with minds so blissfully ignorant thatthey walk right through you and do not see the splintered furniture residing within yourbody, you are invisible to them,and sometimesyou wonder if you are even therebut then there are other people - people worth staying standing for,people who will walk in and gently run their fingers along the parts of yourself thatyou forgot were even there,people who will explore your anatomy likeit is an undiscovered world. let them find the stale cup of water you leftbeneath your bed 5 months ago,let them find the brittle treasures you hidein your fireplace, and how you masochisticallyadore the way that you could justcatch on fire at anysecondbut do not let them break you,not ever again.
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
Painting NightsDear Emma,The truth is I'm not a painter.The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter. You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty. Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.Just to keep seeing you. Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around
a sliver of the galaxyto the star girl on the edge of my tongue:your hair dye is fading; you are a patch workquilt comprised of sleepless nights andrestless days.the world around you romanticizesthe sadness that fills you like a broken well,but you know they’re wrong --having a darkness that threatensto overwhelm you every single momentisn’t glamorous at all.you’ve started to trace your skinwith a knife again, itching to pressa little harder, to draw on your bodythe only way you know how.but you won’t.because that will meanthat you’re just as far goneas they think you are.and there’s still a sliver inside of youthat doesn’t want to let go.--the girl on the other side of your mirror
between here and there.i.- the whorish age.i was born young, but i thinki've somehow always beenseventeen. that's really the most impossibly lonesome ageto be. here you are, stuck in the middle ofinnocence andadulthood- god, seventeenis such a fuckingtease. it's all the want, and noneof the get, none of the have.ii.- the epitome of in betweens.maybe it's justme. after all, i am constantly grasping at thein betweens. i liveon 'maybe's and 'perhaps's, feast on'could-have-been's. it'swhat i breathe. the worst one, to me, is 11:49 p.m.; it's almost a new day, but it's just11 minutes away. it'sin between yesterday andtomorrow. i wonder if11:49 p.m. is lonely. i wonder ifit can feel the buzz ofnothingness, the hum of everything itis not. i wonder if i am 11:49 p.m., because i amdrowning in the thingsi have yet tobecome.iii.- the typewriter with pins for keys.there is thisthing inside of me,
with lovei.sleepwalking with starslike bulletwounds, tonightis for wandering andloving people I’ve never met.I have a hole in my heart forthe boy on my bus who balancesthe world on his chin as he sleeps.I’m drawn to a sunshine girl leakingbeams every time she opens hermouth to smile. and still, I followa boy who walks across clouds;I want to ask him to send me uplike a balloon.ii.ways I need to be loved:a hand heavy on my hip to remind megravity is more than an ideal, asoft kiss to bring me back fromother galaxies, a calm whisperwhen I’ve run out of wordsbut the silence is toomuch,iii.I’m severely broken up,fragments of words andheartscraps and sky-pieces;crawling backwards throughopen windows trying to finda home. I’m trying butI was untaught how tofunction, I’m trying tobe correct. I’m trying tobe normal. I’m trying tobe correct. I’m trying.iv.words I need to hear:I Love You. i love youi love you i lov
Arachnophobia“Mom,” she says, voice quivering, her tiny finger pointed at my head. “Spider!”
ShatteredHe lit the cigarette hanging from his mouth cupping his other hand around it to make sure the flame didn't flicker out. When the nicotine began to work, he released the smoke invading his mouth; it had been a busy week. A week that was absolute hell. The man stepped on the cigarette butts, from other visitors, as he made his way though the decrepit building. Moonlight shown through the broken windows as to light his way. Not that he needed to see in the dark; he could see quite easily in the dark. Stained glass sparkled when the light hit the glass in a particular spot. He stopped to look at it. The stained glass window represented him perfectly. It was broken in the center. It was broken where the heart should have been in the picture created by the stained glass. Glass crunched underneath him as he stopped to stare at it. Did this really give him meaning? Did he feel anything about it? He took another breath of his cigarette. It wasn't doing much for him; the nicot
Afterlife Astronaut“There is no God.”“Well, you don’t know that for sure-““Bernard, as an AI connected to every philo-science document, every parabyte of knowledge in the Human Empire, every logic string going back to the days of the Past Colonists... I can assure you, there is no God. It has been proven.”Bernard sighed. His helmet visor fogged up then disappeared.“I’m not going to bother arguing with you. Soon that golden gate is going to open, and I will walk into the Kingdom of Heaven. That should be enough proof.”The gate in question was a smooth sphere of gold, slowly rotating on an equally dull pedestal. Crystal red spires pointed at specific points on the globe.“You just don’t want to argue with me because you are in fear of how wrong you are. And how right a computer can be.”Jude deserved to be muted, but sass like that always kept her voice a ubiquitous presence in Bernard’s helmet. A blue flash in the top
FuzzballYou stumble into the darkness of your home after a horrid day at work, grateful to feel your cat's tongue slobbering over your hand affectionately. Then you remember that you don't have a cat.
Matters of the HeartMy ex-husband told me that he would steal my heart again.It now sits in a jar on his nightstand.
The presenceAnother darksome morning; he stepped out of the shower, still unsettled by the vivid nightmare; all of a sudden he found himself staring at his own terrified gaze. Words appeared on the misty mirror:"I am still here".
a beach called lovei'm a quivering piece of meringue in his calloused hands petulance dangling like a pendant from the constellations on my earlobes, spaghetti legs limp and loose. heavy locks of my hair, pale as white coral, weigh him down, but the bright damp eyes that meet my own are fireworks somersaulting even in the warm july rain."rachel." i smile lazily."yeah?""i want to talk to you about something."all of a sudden the world around me goes into focus, exposes dread scuttling unpleasantly into looping veins and capillaries freezing the blood flow to my brain."oh god." he grins, rabbit incisors strong and white and reassuring."don't worry, dear, it's nothing bad.""rachel.""yeah?" i inhale deeply, voice weak, breathing in the scent of peppermint cream coming off his skin."i love you.""have you ever wondered why octopi can only live in water?""what does that have to do with anything?""some people are like octopi or jellyfish or whatnot they simply can't survive in condit
ConsensualCider had convinced herself that she'd been born different. Around her stood grit-toothed murderers and ivory faced celebrities. However, Cider was deemed untalented by her mother and obsolete by her father. She couldn't do much, and she was alright with that.It is eleven at night, and the moon had fallen asleep on the river. Her parents hadn't come to say good night to her, so she decides to visit their room.She strolls into a horrifying mess. Her mother is roped onto the bed and her father has six kitchen knives buried snugly in his arm. On the blood-doused rug in front of her lay a handgun, its pristine form contrasting against the crimson field. Cider steps back, terrified."Cider, dear, we've set things up perfectly for you," her mother forces a smile. "No longer will you be the worthless soul you are!""Yes," her father says. He grits his teeth, blood staining sheets. "Pick up the gun! Shoot us here and everyone in the world will soon know your name."Cider shakes her head, a v
Her EyesHe lost track of time as he stared into her beautiful eyes. When the doorbell rang he gently placed them back into the freezer.
For Your Eyes OnlyWe used to talk every day, for hours- from dawn til dusk. Until you slipped up- mentioned my name, and they told you I was dead.