You once told me “A diary is a long winded letter you write to an old person who used to be you.”

Still, please take better care of it, everyone has to read it in the future, and the bits you’ve spilt grape juice over are completely indecipherable. All we know about -that- New Years Party is from eyewitness accounts of the event and the first and last words of the entry “You’d never believe…” and “…that’s how I ended up on the highway, with a bedside lamp and a breadbox full of money.”


♥♥♥

And then she disappeared beneath an ocean much too blue, too shallow for her fears.
The morning rose and fell along with seashell stealing tides that pulled away like last year’s closes friends, tanking all those memories, footprints in the sand into their hearts so heartless like irony has to be.
She dug her toes into the surf where foam tickled at the skin all around and in between them, took the ground from right beneath her feet; currents wore her bones in two, doubly double-jointed daydreams falling down like jilted skeletons around the skin she sheds so readily.
Emotions never came to any good.

She wraps herself in incompetence like an oversized sweatshirt, smothering insecurities before they hatch inside her eye sockets, break her open from behind just so she never sees it coming.
And though it snowed again this morning, she stood impassive at the window as flurries flurried past into oblivion, walked away unhurried while a door swung shut not noticed in the gloom and doom and fairytales and backward dreams she wakes from so unbeautiful.
But there’s amazement hiding underneath her fingernails, waiting for the day she’ll paint them white like lilies for the funeral of that girl, the one she used to know when once upon a time still meant something and storybook nonsense defined her; she wishes it would come out and play, give her rose tinted glasses so she won’t see all the hatred swirling up around her.
Everything she musn’t do is one step farther from her future, closer to the beginning she wishes could begin again--every cup of coffee strips away the innocence cached between her ribs, leaking from a broken heart she went looking for because it was easier than letting go.
A single tear is sliding down her body, touching all the broken places so imperfectly, so distractingly vehemently distastefully, as she slips into this state of somewhat sleep, warm and cracked and comfortless; incoherency is something she’ll never take for granted so long as she’s compensating for all those flaws that God forgot to warn her about.
This nightmare’s an amazement all its own.

And my lips said go but I said no, and you just stood there looking merciful as I felled myself with a dull axe of indecision and animosity.
I wanted so much to reach out and to touch the crumpled chrysalis behind me, crawl back indoors where it never snowed, where the ceiling stared back when I look up in servitude; those walls were all too kind as the reached inside and tugged away at everything I was taught I couldn’t live without.
With books and mislead poetry fluttering at my side, I took on what little of the world I really longed to know my neat lines drawn upon a map in just four simple minded colors—but of course you rained on my parade with those stormy azure irises, more enrapturing than any garden flower.
And then the sky fell down around my almost open bones, woke the rib-revealing emptiness I’d never known enough to loath—yet I wanted it so sanely as to shudder in the shadows, hiding from your excitable agility until temptation looked me over, walked away unsatisfied.

Blink.
Eyes newborn and blameless, that pretty-baby brown of almost summer after-the-sunset skies that make you swear everything’s the same only better, brighter, cleaner. She is the beginning of a life.
Blink.
Baby skeleton reaching infant hands to infant toes, gurgling, stretching out tore define her outline, bind her up in lines she’s too young to understand as she grows into a world where innocence and sacred never go together. She is beautiful incompetence.
Blink.
Fingers lengthening, strengthening to touch my face so softly that even as she cries, I smile; corner crawling carpet handprints stalk her shadow as she blends them into a white field all her own, simple syllables rebounding from lips and hips and shoulder blades as she explores these mortal vices. She is open and aware and amazement.
Blink.
She curls with sleep between her ribs, giggles wound around the teeth still buried in her bones, heavy lidded lethargy washing her away into seas of sweet dreams I hold for her inside my self and pool into my arms, holding her away from insecurity. She is anything extraordinary.
Blink.
She is barely here and already slipping away.

All she wants is to touch the sky, that ceiling of insubstantial imagination with horizons full of star-shaped promises she used to wish upon, when she was so much younger and it wasn’t inconceivable that wish-upon-a-star could be a miracle.
But skeletons skitter through her daydreams—unsheathed fingers scratching at her eyelids, bare hips gleaming like the milky white of nothingness and nowhere and everything else she’s so afraid of as tongueless mouths stutter castanet mumblings, teeth clicking clacking grinding cracking without lips to shape around the words and make them whole, but she can hear it in her head if not her ears, how dubious her wanting is. They know.
And from the daydreams come her nightmares filled with a different lack of words, the kind that begins in screams and ends in the stiff embrace of loneliness choking her, there’s no zenith, no lapse, no ebb, it’s all the same sort of pain, worn and torn and broken just alike, but there’s nothing she can do except wake up and face the azure emptiness above.
They want to tell her she’s defective, all their conclusive lies, assumptions leading to a definition of everything she’s not; it’s just too hard to say that she’s unique—just like everybody else.
She wakes up feeling lovely, like the world belongs to only her and she can make it fall in love with her scars, but the doubts come tapping back on the tiptoes of a stranger born of bones, who giggles without lungs at her infidelity as she catches falling dreams beneath her tongue and wishes they were just a little sharper, so they could take her away.
But every day’s a prison, every night a wraith, each one better worse the same as before but different because she knows a little more, feels a little more, wants a little less; maybe one day all these restrictions will cut her down to nothingness, less than that, enough to reach up broken fingers and brush the heaven she’ll never see.
What happened to the days she could sleep?

She’s blissfully distracted, heavy headed daydreams lulling her into their bosoms where nightmares slumber disconsolately behind gauze curtains falling sideways in razorblade ribbons.
Dirty thoughts lurk behind her eyes, seeking out dark minded corners in which to thrive; her crevices teem with words her mother taught her not to say when she was too young not to understand, slipping in between her thoughtlessness to bring a blush upon ashen bones.
Embarrassed into nakedness, she sleeps among fallen dreams where everything is tattered, worn and torn and broken just alike, just like she never expected to be; clothing woven of discarded promises falls apart beneath the sunlight bringing out intrinsic flaws—bare skin waking up again without a care.
It’s not hell she’s found, it might even be ther heaven no one ever talks about, the one where angels can’t sing on key, and the past is looming around the edges, waiting for her to slip up and fall downwhere it can reach; if this is heaven, she wishes she were still alive.
Death is just a misunderstanding, she’s decided, between her and God, but she’ll get out of it somehow; all she has to do is wake up.
Because nothing is permanent. Or maybe that’s the problem.

They whisper that it’s wrong, but tell me it’s alright that faeries live inside their bottles, growing from the bottom up and branching out into their lips like Good Folk like to do.
Their arms are vines with leafing fingers reaching up beyond your throat, through your eyes and past your teeth, trying to crawl out from your chest; they slip inside and slide between your cheeks, thrashing up against your back, winding through and down your spine, overriding your mind with their fey lies—but you claim to like it.
Tipping slightly downward toward my face, eyes glazed over and graceless, grabbing at your infidelity with a single drink; let’s downpour more on your soul, sticky alcohol mumblings stumbling across your collar, breaking open your pretty lips in profanities; I didn’t know Jesus Christ was a name you called on often.
But f can only end in ucking, just like sh can only end in it; pretty beads in your vocabulary necklace limited to all the things you wouldn’t say around children.
You’re dripping and melting, slipping and splitting between my fingers; the fun has only just begun, and already you’re ringing vibrations of an empty shell. I tap against your exterior and pretty music sings, slightly off key like it’s not supposed to be there, and you swear you’re the same only better, with a new skeleton stretched underneath your façade laced in liberalism and unoriginality. I want to smile but I want to scream; you’re just that scary.
Hold my sister's hand, hand her a drink, a sip to swish between her teeth like all young children should; fifteen years old is ripe and fresh to bite the fruit of an illicit tree, even for you, even for me.
But blame is just a game that doesn’t matter any more than every other senseless sigh riding tails of wishing stars into a shallow sea of alcohol that strips the bones from fingertips I used to know so intimately, before you drowned yourself to death from the inside out.
I begged you not to put your faith in faeries.

You left me on the floor in pieces, a broken chandelier hiding in the carpet as rain moon reflections scattered like lighthearted nightmares.
And all the people stopped their dancing, paused in still life embraces, women in ball gowns and men in cuffs gazing at such a beautiful catastrophe.
You were on the balcony, waiting, but not for me this time; it never really was for me. Her beautiful soul, her beautiful face, everything so much more than I.
There were applause, gasps of pain as each person cut themselves on my remains, licking at their bleeding hands and knees, eyes drinking you in, praising.
If glass could cry, I’m sure the room would flood, become an ocean, mosaics rusting and molding while everyone else died and decayed, except for you.
Because you’re on the balcony again, holding her hand and kissing her hair, singing her love songs you don’t really know as you hand her roses instead of tin boxes promises and happily ever afters I didn’t deserve.
Now I’m nothing but a necklace adorned across her throat, broken bits choking her before your eyes; I can see that you barely remember touching stars with me, but I can watch you now forever.
Until you break her, too.

I’m almost wishing I were almost naked, stripped to the bares of myself with bones and flesh and soul mixed together, exposed and reaching toward you; then maybe you would remember me.
Touch my tears, they’re real this time; I guess I finally learned how to cry. Pinch the wetness with your fingertips and try to imagine how I must think I feel.
Run your hands along my body, lingering where the scars are; brush your pretty hands at the ugliness until you realize that you created it, all of this and who I am.
I remember how I trembled, your child’s hand touching my child’s face, almost kisses that became more than that as you looked into my eyes that could never, never in the forevers of life be as beautifully broken blue as yours; maybe that was the reason you could never love me.
With my poetry and imaginary things, refusal of all the realities binding everyone else; I love to pretend you love pretending, but perhaps that’s the only way we could be.
Am I still a pretty picture of nothing? My mediocrity is far enough for this to be okay, good enough for one short moonless night, but never more than you can touch.
Pluck me a thousand freshly stale words from your garden of whys and lies and excuses, every reason why I can’t be with you; give me your verbiage, your beautiful limerick lyrics, while mine linger behind my lips, playing with my tongue as I watch your mouth; love words, hate words, death notes and poetry stuck between my almost not quite perfect teeth.
Please come see what you’ve created, what you took and made unbeautiful, drained and drank until it was almost less than alive, reduced to melancholy phrases on its pen, dying simply because you told it to live.
Do you recognize me now?

Quit romancing what isn’t meant to be; persuasion was never why I chose you. You look at me with caramalized glass eyes, judging my intentions; can’t you see?
I just want (need) you to break my heart.

I adore mistakes, the way they slip off my tongue in that baby blue way, innocent.
Sometimes I consider sliding these blemishes in between the lettersof the words I write, just so nothing could be perfect, and I can savor the taste of wasting away in this cliché English language(until you come after me with big vocabularies and dictionaries, claiming I’m sinning against the god(s) of literature.
So instead I run my tongue down bloody knees, licking away the “accidental” trip I took on concrete.
Some people say I’m a shy step away from insanity,but I like to think of it as (flawed) ecstasy.

Click.
Slow motion reverse, can’t stop and I know it, kills me inside; don’t wish I’d died… but maybe.
Crunch/crumple, photographic memory deceiving me, it’s hell—sort of.
Pain delights, in truth, but please don’t tell my mother, I deserve this more than anyone.
Red diagonals, I remind of kindergarten; pick out shapes inside my skin, educate a child, what’s the harm?
No casualties, technically, just a bit of sanity I didn’t really need, and of course I miss familiarity, though that was going anyway—not so permanent, but still.
Oil slicks on wet asphalt, traffic cones imperious, seven, eight, nine flashing lights in pairs or triplicate.
Shivering… I’m scared, alone and guilty of this inconvenience, a few contusions growing, slowly numbing me.
Don’t scream, just drive past, laugh at that poor girl standing in a ditch with tears all down her back; she’ll resent, but you won’t know it.
Just another accident.

Limber, that’s the word today—I picked it just for you because you’re wonderful; sunshine days can wait, anticipate afternoons wrapped up in thunderstorms and nothing else.
Could you live in grey just one day for me? You see, I’d be so grateful if your faithfulness endured, you’ll cure my innocence; I’m yours, you won’t deny, and though it isn’t said you know you’re mine—we’re equal minded.
Cling like mist, a pleasant touch much more than limitation, take an hour for yourself to judge intentions; would you flinch if I approached? I rather hope not.
Cripple inhibitions just a bit, lust’s a bitch when you’re in love; can’t rise above conformity, we’re too willing to be insensitive.
Crystallize denial, we’re on trial for the sins we turned our backs on, but we’re guilty in our own way, just another day to dream; redeem yourself, my darling, and the wolves will take their fill.
I’m yours to kill.

Whisper to me that I’m beautiful one more time, though I’m dressed in bare skin again, scarred and imperfect but oh so lovely under your always bated gaze; forget that I’m a ghost in a black wedding dress.
Sometimes I want to spread my arms apart, reach in impossible directions until I snap, finally insane and free to fly with broken wings; they’re burned and bloody but still beating softly like the sound of my heart in my head, a dull rhythm cutting through my bloodstream. I’m made of electricity and mistakes tonight.
Broken promises glide across my swollen lips, pouring over the edge beyond, behind the stars, while I paint my fingerprints phosphorescent just so you might see me when I’m six feet gone, dead but maybe so much more alive than anyone with glass bones and brittle fingertips to kiss.
Don’t you know that you’re part of me now, a little piece of life inside of me, still living? I’m breathing because you gave me oxygen just when I thought I would die again; you told me I couldn’t drown today, there was so much more of me left to give, but you lied about having nothing to lose when I realized you meant everything when you said you were in love with my flaws.

I see her ribs and say I want to paint them rainbow, to guide their luminescence into color, away from the broken glow of light, of white I can nearly see.
Her admirers are captives of these prison bars, steaming with a reddish gleam inside, trying to crawl through her spaces and bulge from her sunken self; they hate to stay still when she is moving, dancing in clothes marked CAUTION: Fragility among the agile.
They want to objectify her presence, but she rejects them, flicks her fingers, spreading them like spider webs, sticking the glue of her tongue to the inside of their mouths while they forget in the lull of goodbye; they breath and crack and sigh, expressions of curiosity drifting along the motion of their cheekbones.
Cramming their fingers between her sides, stabbed by her protruding elements; elbows, ankles, knees, reminders of their gnawing consciences, but she’s drugged them into dominant submission, nodding off to sleep between her bones.
I see her ribs and say regret is for the rest of your life.

My fingers dance across two dimensional realities, fighting reason with words that never grow, ideas that never change as the sun rains and the rain snows; it’s just another manifest of immortality scorned as I set fire to these paper dry plains of hell and watch the edges curl up into dead language scrolls as thunder rolls across the midday sky and swells against the pretty little heads of and innocent eyes of newborns.
And the words will never know that I softly blow my gritty song out of my soul, onto the flame so they’re grow; higher and higher and soon I’m wired with the newness of electric chemistry reacting inside of me, blue and molten and boiling between my skin with a feverish glow of sunrise seas crawling beneath my knuckles and knees, playing my bones like piano keys that strike the strings of sins long forgot.
It’s a beautiful hatred of humanity spilling off the edges of each burning memory that dredges lost and found sensations of lust and vanity and fallen down dreams with bloody palms that heal against the concrete in lacerated rendsand everyone else pretends that nothing is worth being wrong, that being real means blending in to the insanity.

She’s such an addict, writing on her skin, paper thin phrases she prays her mother never sees so they don’t get ripped from her wrists and ankles as the ink drips down onto her fingertips where she licks it off, a stream of bitter insecurities on the tip of her tongue.
She drifts in streams of lilac trees where beauty grows like moss upon her shoulders and mixes with copper hair, hiding those eyes, shattered storm puddles placed in her face to gaze so solemnly up at a sun of melting butterscotch candy from a flower stained grave.
She dances for the starlight and folds her body into origami shapes so the moon will kiss her unashamed skin with its rays; she wouldn’t quite call it worship when she twists her hands in floral patterns across her chest, it’s more of a falling in love all over again with the nighttime breezes that caress her cheeks as garish daylight sinks away until her mouth is filled with pretty, silent music that only she can truly hear.
Her dreams are made of honey droplets and spider silk wound tightly around stream bed curves and a ribbon of regret encircling her emaciated waist; she is made of bones and skin and plumb flesh she pinches playfully, gleaming at the marks she leaves.
She devours words, her lips taking in all the unpleasant lies that drip from others’ mouths; she loves to drink the wine of disdain and angst that speaks of deadly summers and their poison songs being sung to our eyes, to our lives; she wants to believe the blasphemous wonders painted in the melted butter lyrics that assault her ears like safety glass shards, almost sharp enough to touch her splintered almost soul.
She speaks in third person like someone forgot to tell her that she isn’t a character in the book she is sure is being written at this moment; with silver strands of jubilant sorrow flowing through her bloodstream, she feels so different from everyone else, like a stranger walking around, a tattoo on her forearm with swirls and twisted words spelling out an undefined mural of what her life is supposed to be,what everyone is supposed to see when they look into her eyes.
She wants to be original, but she still writes poetry about love because maybe she wants it too, maybe she can’t get someone out of her head, out of her heart; that just makes her ever more a part of the majority, not that being a minority is very difficult when freak is written across her forehead and her mouth is sewn shut by a flame blacked needle with thread made from ripped up photographs of what she was sure love was made of.
Now she runs bony fingers thought her chipped hair, snow sprinkled on her eyelashes, waiting for him; dust is collecting on her knees, a dark veil across her eyes hiding the fear that he’ll never come again.
She is lost and poetic, she is burning and alive, it’s time for her to realize that he’s not part of her; it’s time for her to whisper goodbye to everything. She feels multicolored pain seeping into her just-healed bones like all the horizon rainbows are really bullets being shot from pretty guns, driven into her flesh and leaving unseen scars that make her all the more unbeautiful.
She strips down to her frozen flesh and sings in a low voice of hopelessness for what never was and what remains of nothingness; her mouth is but a bucket being filled with water words, reflections of the dying skies and darkened stars that no longer shine for her.
Her fingers wrap around the shoulders of people who want to hold her, want to love her, and she cries for them because she can only bring them anguish; in their eyes she sees that they need someone more, someone better, and that she really is meant to walk alone along the paths of life, because brokenness isn’t meant to be shared.
Wet falls through her fingers in tasty raindrops; she wants to soak them through her skin and become the storm instead of flesh, but they slide off her body, laughing at her tears masked by the ever plummeting shards of water echoing as the splash in dramatic death throes.
She loathes the sensations but can’t help adoring all the precious little things that surround her; she is a mess of confusion and ignorance and she is everything that she can’t stand in a person. She wants to live and wants to die but is too sacred of breathing to stop her breaking lungs from collapsing because air is the reality she doesn’t want to believe; it means she can’t pretend that being alone doesn’t scare her more than anything.
Her eyelids are dropping across muddy white stones softly lodged in her head, and sleep might be longer for it she weren’t already dreaming things that no one wants to see; maybe she really is crazy, but it doesn’t matter, since that’s what everyone keeps telling her anyway.
She still believes in her sanity, most days, believes in lost love and being original in some painfully cliché ways that long for everything she can’t have, but why shouldn’t she?

They told me to wish upon a shooting star.
So I watched the first summer sunrise until the gooey warmth stuck to my bones; a halo of fire surrounding my head,
my faded whisper wishes welled up to match the spectrum, red green purple blue orange yellow; staining God’s willed colors into something new.
I kept watching, because you have to watch the whole thing, they say, to make your wish become something real.
Finally my chosen star fell into the ocean waves, painting iloveyous onto the water; reflections and imperfections so faultless, sunshine moments blinding my words.
My lips were dry and silent while nighttime embraced me, trembling in the darkening grass, mouthed wishes circling my head.
But in the end, everyone's a liar.

What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling ‘round the sun, what a beautiful dream that could flash on the screen in the blink of an eye and be gone from me; let me hold it so close and keep it, let me hold and keep it here with me.
One day we will die and our ashes will fly from an aeroplane over the sea, but for now we are young, let us play in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see; love to be in the arms of all that I’m keeping, all that I’m keeping here with me.
What an infinite glance of a just one time chance that will fall with the tears in our eyes, what an infinite scene of the sun faded green that could seep from the earth and swallow the sea; let me swim in the dreams of everything, everything inside of all of me.
What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling ‘round the sun, where bright storms fill the skies and reflect in your eyes and we laugh for all to see; let me laugh as I hold you and keep you, as I hold you and keep you here with me.

He says that she is lemon ripe with juice running down her throat; she tastes like summer in his mouth, though autumn auburn hair runs through his fingers and snowflakes shatter in her eyes. She can’t be just a single season, and it looks as if spring is at her fingertips; she brings to life everything, anything, she touches.
He wants her so much it kills him on the inside, outside, every side of him pulses for her touch; if only she would want him like he wants her, his very own untouchable transforming girl.
I look into his eyes and think of howI am not so beautiful, how I am less than what he sees in someone much more amazing than I could ever be.
I am only ink stained and coffee drenched scribble, scratching words on dry pieces of any sort of long ago trees and sometimes even my skin, but my tattoos are vice compared to the smooth curves of her cheeks and arms so free of any discrepancy thatI want to rip away at my skin and forget I feel, refuse to remember what I’ve been taught and just grow a pair of mirror wings that echo as I try to fly across the boundaries of what never was and always will be, nothing and everything gliding through my skin and hair so mediocre, so lacking in any sort of beauty whatsoever.
But I smile and say it will all turn out all right and everything will end up how it’s supposed to be; love will come to you because it never came to me, and he forgets me all the time but I always think of him. It doesn’t really matter when my fingers are crossed in lies just like my lips that must taste of dead leaves and broken dreams because they’ve been forgotten and so have I.
Maybe to someone I will taste like apples and have the life of spring in eyes that might someday sparkle; maybe they will see the summer sun in my skin so faded and the color of icy earth in my garden soil hair. Maybe he was wrong and I could be his very own untouchable transforming girl; or maybe he was right, and I’m just mediocre and unmemorable.

You stand there wordless and wounded, jaw dropping, dripping disbelief upon the floor she dances over, careless; words hurt so much more than garden pebbles tossed and glanced away ashamedly, all the words she slid down your throat wrapped up in candy coated vinegar droplets.
So I just shrink backward and inward, fading away so you don’t have to look at me like you looked at her when she was broken; I will never be naked and vulnerable for you like I always wanted to be when we were strangers.
We crumbled and sifted through each others’ fingers, once upon a time before your fairytale, before falling apart was cliché and condescending; she choked out all the pulchritude of falling, left you on a pedestal above your means where you starved in so many ways that your ribs cried themselves to sleep.
What if flies and vinegar aren’t such strangers, if these acidic memories are killing us ever so slightly enough to not quite see; I can’t look at myself in this honey hued conception after all the minutes and moments of adoration I endured for something or someone I needed in that long ago used to be fairytale way.
Let me kiss away the speechlessness. I’ll leave a different lack of words in your mouth, the kind that never quite goes away but always lingers in the very nearly forgotten background noise, just waiting for a memory to star in.
Let me be the forgotten unforgettable for you.

There’s this hideously blue feeling digging into my soul like a crystal ocean that glitters metallic kisses across my skin, and some miraculous thought ripples through my helplessly broken self; it leaves black ribbon wakes in my hopelessness, that maybe it will all end up alright.
Tonight I imagine our final embrace; burning body wrapped around my arctic figure, mesmerized by your wordless prose.When you touched my mouth you poured new life into me like my blood sang quite suddenly solely for you, a strange melody called pulse rushing, stumbling where your hand once held mine, so empty now that we’re gone.
Stars always hurt when I’m alone, and I can’t imagine what it might be like to someday sit and watch the sunrise (but not really watch the sun rise); as rain berates my window panes, licks my skin a pleasant shade of failure, the horrific sensation of needing you bleeds out, wanting so much but realizing I don’t really; I’m just wishing you were someone you can’t (but could) be.
We never had love and barely grasped lust, but I know we are somehow more important and this was meant to be something it wouldn’t; maybe when we’re older we will understand and meet again, comprehend what is now impossible to see, and we will take each other’s hands to feel everything we’ve always known was inside but couldn’t bring out without being truly together, because I know there’s something a little more than nothing when we touch.
But then, we may never meet again and maybe I’ll even forget you name, your face, that touch that was so affectionate, but I have this funny feeling that it will never happen. I’ll just pretend to pretend you never mattered, nothing is being torn when you scribble nonchalantly because I so obviously need someone to feel sorry for me.
… There I go again, enamored and innocent, irascible because I can’t decide how I feel anymore.
You’re just a million shattered promises and I’m that gift, the one you got years ago that never mattered, you just can’t bear to throw me away, though I’m lowly and lovely and begging; you just pull at the chains I’ve knit together with poetry and make me feel almost worth it. Why this endless ellipse of loving to hate you, hating to love you, loathing the concept of compromise? I’m just hoping for a future and pining for a past we almost had.
I almost feel empty again until you inspire me in the most tragically beautiful way.

She’s drowning in all this oxygen, half dead in a bathtub full of ice cold air; she whispers through clenched teeth that all the trees are dying, decaying and fading into the sky, leaves turning to iron stars that fall from the sky onto our heads until our crowns break open and out pour the dreams of generations, a rainbow liquid streaming down our bodies.
But nothing changes.
She’s burning holes through her skin with just her fingertips and cigarettes, brushing her hair with an acid laced comb, screaming softly into oblivion as the oceans turn to sunshine; drying up like dead philosophers’ tongues wriggling between our fingers, filling up our lungs with oh so salty water. Soon there will be nothing left, and the waves will be but a memory.
But nothing changes.
She’s sewing silk into her shoulders, pushing the needle through her skin, smiling at the bloody black ribbon, singing to all her long lost souls.
Tonight the mountains crumble into butterflies; they’ll fly away from our world, leaving us in one dimension, flat and boundless. We will try to speak, but our mouths are filled with all the thoughts we thought were true, and eventually we will die, while she'll wear the sun around her throat.
But nothing changes.
And as everything stays the same, she grows thinner every day; eyes wide as if to terrorize, thoughts drifting into fantasy where fays live and nothing dies except for the horrified little girl shooting something into her blood, breathing smoke and chemicals, chewing pretty little white pills.
As demons plague her mind, she screams and thrashes in the grass, clothes ripped and stained a colorful rainbow of crudeness. She’s the definition of the opposite of living, but not quite dead, or at least not today.
Because overdose tastes better tomorrow.

Once upon a time, I knew a boy with sun kissed hair and laughing eyes who never looked at me; it was always through me and my paper dry fingers from turning too many pages with downcast, stormy eyes I refused to show anyone, but sometimes I wished he would love me, once upon a time.
Once upon a time, I knew a boy who didn’t know what he wanted, but sometimes he would trust me and talk like we would never be apart; we just knew that it wouldn’t be like that for two people who didn’t want love but deep down knew they needed it, once upon a time.
Once upon a time, I knew a boy who laughed at the words I said, drinking them in as if they somehow mattered; I didn’t understand, but I knew that I needed him as much as he needed me, and we whispered shallow nothings, even cried at times when we went too deep because we would always be there for each other, even when these affections faded, once upon a time.
Once upon a time, I knew a girl who never stopped talking and filled the silences with tasty words I loved to hear; we loved each other’s souls that were born of the same God, because we knew we were meant to be together; closer than blood, our love was, pure and true, we were soul sisters, once upon a time.
Once upon a time, on a much too beautiful night when the stars shone brighter than they ever had before, because no moon was there to take away from the brilliance of their twinkling light, I met an unexpected stranger with dancing brown stained glass eyes that tore up my soul in on glance; he had pretty piano hands that forced me to feel so unworthy as they entwined around my own and he watched me like I really mattered, kissed me deep and dark and full, tasted like nothing and everything I’d ever known, but he was just another boy with so much potential that it gripped my heart. He only wanted what he couldn’t have, once upon a time.
Once upon a time, there was a lonely little girl who was drowning in ink and poetry words taking form as she cut open her soul and bled onto blank sheets of white, but she still loved the things that hurt her more than anything else ever could, in some disgusting way, so horrific. She wanted to burn the penned images she created until ashes covered her fingertips like incinerated butterflies; maybe then she could really cry again, because it’s all really just a transcript of emotional miscommunications and lack of any understanding whatsoever.
Now I’m just so frightened because once upon a time isn’t ending with happily ever after anymore.

I open my mouth slightly, wanting you to taste the sunshine under my tongue, cutting yours on the stars I hide there, woven together like other people’s dreams.
I close my eyes, waiting, wanting you to twine your fingers into mine, weaving a web I can’t escape alive, tighter than the web of lies I’ve woven around you.
I let myself fall, slipping into the rhythm of passion and misplaced trust, wanting you to break my ribs in your carelessness, wanting you to want me enough to forget that it’s only reckless abandon.
I bite my tongue, smiling, letting you taste the very life of me, so bitter, as I kiss the saltiness from your throat, leave lip prints in fading crimson.
I want you in way I never knew, lashing stars together between my teeth to draw you in and trap you inside all of me as I bleed from needle marks you’ll never notice.
I’m testing my limits recklessly, wanting you to feel the power of lust, passion incinerating your bones to grave dust as your heart tattoos a beat of hesitant anticipation.
I hide under my fingernails, wanting happily ever after in a moment without chains forged of iloveyous and maybes, just the juicy tang of sunshine under my tongue.

When you look at me, you don’t see the almost-scars where I hesitated too long to erase them under my skin.
You’re not paying attention to the staples beneath my fingernails or the sutures behind my smile; is it easier not to see?
If you could ask me, I wouldn’t deny any of it; the telltale zigzag stitches can’t be lied away.
If you knew, would you pick out the tiny incisions that completely belie all the screwed together bones below?
I suppose it’s simpler to ignore all the imperfections than to acknowledge that you’ll never be able to fix me.
Can you overlook the butterfly tape and band-aid patches that hold together all the little rips and tears in me?

Crayons are melting in my hands, leaving vibrant stain that can’t be washed away without taking something with them.
The pictures were so neat before the fever took its toll and turned them into warm smears to erase the indelible lines.
I tried to let go, to finish, but the wrapping paper seams split and seeped their gooey entrails between my squeamish fingers; all the color pooled, half liquid children’s paintbrushes bleeding into chaotic masterpieces that mocked their own duplicity.
Crayons are blistering my hands as they drip like skewed candles onto already scalded images that I spent so long creating; I should have know better than to play with fire, but the match heads were such an enticing shade of crimson that begged me to strike them on the paper and create fire in two dimensions, but I overlooked the rules.
So now I’m bleeding wax over the ground out, labored nightmare renderings that were so simply scarred away, and the crayons are melding with my skin to brand neon handprints into my soul.

Costume smiles and costume tears, costume paint to hide the smears of black mascara from tears that weren’t so fake.
Falling stars and falling dreams, falling curtains to hide the scenes that play out when makeup cracks and costumes fade.
Wilted flowers and wilted love, release the stone dead turtledoves;
the cage has been rusted shut and the stage torn down.
Washed up programs and washed out plots, the theatre made way for a parking lot and the music is silenced forever in a warehouse downtown.
Magical moments and magic tricks, magic portrayals of characters writ; the audience laughed and, as quickly, they shared in the grief.
Remembered amazements, remembered delights, remember the brilliance of evening show lights; the actors are gone, but why can’t we play make-believe?

Scratched up plastic tape is holding together boxes that never should have been opened in rooms that I never wanted to be unlocked.
The ink on the cardboard dried a lifetime ago in a year I barely remember, except for the hollow, dead grating of autumn leaves skittering across empty concrete sidewalks.
I only remember the sound, even, because it reminded me of the very last, wrenching moments spent by your side; when I ran weeping from the room I looked around, thinking that maybe they were wrong and you hadn’t left me yet.
But the leaves continued their sluggish death rattle beneath my feet, and you continued your choking silence that only nightmares can do justice; I can only remember how brushing death felt when I’m not at all sure that I’m still alive.
I realized that I was only lying to myself, so I put all of your things away, out of sight but never out of mind, in taped up boxes behind locked doors that I passed by but never looked at, until the tape began to crack.
I could hear the groaning as my makeshift skyscrapers shifted, and I was afraid that if they fell, you wouldn’t be able to get to heaven.
I patched up the torn parts and braced for an impact that I only imagined, but when I looked at what I had done, the tears came back in all their blindness.
Scratched up plastic tape is holding my heart together.

I’m finger-painting bloody streaks in the floodlit morning sky, broken fingernails clawing at the sun, clawing at my eyes.
The kindergarten shapes are childishly simple: bold lines, blunted angles; fingerprint smudges smear the pictures like bitter, morbid raspberry jam forgotten at a midnight picnic in a winter not everyone survived.
A bare bones mockery of art, midmorning sunsets colored in crayon without any attention to the lines; the blue shows through in the cracks and reveals the lie for what it is.
If I wash the blood under my fingernails until the water runs clear and the guilt runs down the drain in teardrop trickles like sugar water left out for hummingbirds that won't come, no one has to know about my finger-painted midmorning sunsets.

Lately I've been staring at the clouds, alive with beauty. Reflecting all that I live, and I can't help but wonder, "When will they fade away? Fearing the dark may come my way, turning day back into dreary night, where clouds I'll never see." I will stare 'til I can see no more. With dark approaching, I'm longing for answers to these questions that I pose. When will they fade away? Fearing the dark may come my way, turning day back into dreary night, where clouds I'll never see." Though outside it's dark and toxic, I'll try not to be afraid. Cos the stars burn brightly with the hope you give my love. Their bright lights shine like beacons in the sky, guiding me far from this place. Glowing knives cut right through this darkened sky, 'til all that's good refills my gaze.

Call me a coward, it's so fitting. I flee from open doors. They are creaking, cracking open, and I will never escape them all. I will proceed in fear. For what is yet to come, I don't know, but I'll carry on. I'll carry on. I'm farther and farther from all that I once held. Call me a coward, it's so fitting. I flee from open doors. They are creaking, cracking open, and there is no way I'll ever escape them all. I've tried so hard to conspire against the ever present threat time has on me. It is threatening what I call home. I hold tighter and tighter but I know I've never been that strong. Call me a coward it's so fitting. I flee from open doors. They are creaking, cracking open, and there is no way I'll ever escape them all. I said I would sail the roughest of seas to find some peace, but I'm backing out again. Cos I want my oceans in a spoon where they're short and shallow; something that I can swallow.

A golden moment's come to pass, and it made a swift goodbye, waved its hand from left to right, saying bye, farewell, goodnight. But it left me brave and bold like the knights of bloom, so do some things in life this way. Rising early but well past noon, they weaken die and fade. But there's many perspective buds still clinging to the vine, waiting in patience to show their glory at later times. Oh, I got what I wanted and I'll be afraid no more, and face all these toxic things, cos I have finally found my bravery.

The air is good here. So I'll breathe in deeply, then release all that I hold inside. My lungs are gilded gold, but I know how the time may go, before the toxins flow. I'll wait quietly. I'll wait quietly. Cos I'm afraid and longing to be brave now and face these toxins without any fear; without one single fear. Toxins roam these parts from time to time. So watch yourself, because they might just land themselves upon your doorstep.

Tiny spheres float in fragile fashion on fluid surfaces like time capsules of all ages and spacious intervals. All days and months and years, they hold. Days and months and years, they hold. Days and months and years they hold on. They are so exposed to surface tension and pressures of the atmosphere. They're cashing death threats; their obituaries merely substance of memories. But death can bring new life, though most things must die. Float on in fragile fashion. Float on in fragile fashion. Floating onward, ever waiting for the end to come, that brings all to closure. Clocks are grinning, bearing witness to the passing time, that turns all to memory. Floating onward ever waiting for the end to come.

Ceiling tiles are falling like renegade lawnmower blades with light bulb shrapnel edges, whirling around my head and grazing the pretty little veins that open into bloody smiles at my throat.
Tiny bits of glass glance across my fondant skin, leaving bee sting pinpricks with minuscule roses blooming into them just to fill the would-be scars; red icing to hide raked over cake crumbs.
When all the tiles crumble, the frame looms dark and empty; a waffle iron cookie cutter suspended by razor wire cables that sway in time to the earthquake tremors under three stories of empty space.
Wasn’t this my sanctuary? Before origami love notes fluttered down like papercut cranes to slice my fingerprints into jigsaw puzzle pieces without matches when I tried to read them; before the props collapsed into themselves.
All the paper cranes are catching fire, writhing in the growing tongue of red-purple flame that laps at my ankles incessantly, spitting the ashes into the air to land on my cheeks like incinerated butterfly wings in a river of tears.
Please don’t let me scream.

I’m feeling a little fragile, like my bones are porcelain teacups locked in the attic of a condemned house next to china plates bought for a wedding no one went to. My hands are shaking, stirring up the dust and startling the moths that have eaten away at the clothes in a trunk bound with mummified leather. I blink away tears, but I’m looking through a water streaked window of thick, warped, antique glass in a weathered wooden hoop frame. My thoughts are collapsing with the diary in the corner that crumbled into secret-laden dust that sprinkled like ash over pretty little doll faces cracked with age. I’m feeling ancient, like I’m living in black and white film and sepia photographs that fall to pieces between my fingers when I venture into my grandmother’s basement.

Break my fingers, force me to let go, I don’t think I’ll do it if I’m left on my own. It’s not that I’m lacking in strength, just lacking the will. Fighting these phantoms mine eyes have not met, can’t keep pricking the fingers that have already bled. Sew up the scratches, leave the gaping wounds open to kill. Cut off the lifelines, tie up the ends, if I can’t climb to safety I’ll have to descend. If I can’t find the switch, I’ll just say that the bulb has burned out. Build up the wall between battle and flight; decisions are simpler when it’s all black and white. Monochromatic mosaic in the absence of doubt. Photograph negatives of butterfly wings, white ink on white paper, butterflies sing. My fingers are broken, but I’m digging at butterfly graves. All that was fragile is buried in stone, beauty as brittle as butterfly bones; my fingers are broken but I’m digging at butterfly graves.

Name: Cassie Kae
Birthdate: 06/09
School: I'm still going for it
Email: princessekaemw

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Family
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Kevin Max's Raven Songs album
A USB Yamaha digital recording piano keyboard
Rock Band for Wii
My silver star necklace
My gold star necklace
My jiggly Giraffe silver necklace
The Sanyo Xacti HD underwater digital camcorder (lime green!) when it comes to the USA
The complete Powerpuff Girl's season collection
Freaks & Geeks season collection
Foster's Home Of Imaginary Friends season collection
Real Madrid European football paraphernalia
Broncos American football paraphernalia
A Lara Croft Halloween costume
TWLOHA Deon sweater
A Purpose For Pain TWLOHA book
A USB SD camera card reader
A pineapple mug to drink liquids in
Pineapple antics in general
Giraffe antics in general
Tim Hawkins stand up comedies
A teal colored automobile to drive, that's better than URN

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