compulsive liar.once i asked you your favouritecolour, and you said, "the brownof your eyes," so i put in one greencontact and told everyone that icame out of the womb as a factorydefect, half-priced, damaged goods.-sometimes i am from canada andsometimes i am from england andsometimes i am from spain.i've carefully tempered my accentsand plotted out my stories withyellow and purple coloured pencilson index cards. my origin changeslike the seasons."why do you lie to everyone?" youask."why not?" i reply.-i wear nametags that read "alicia"and "liana" and "samantha," becausei want to know how it feels to besomeone else for a day.you make me a nametag with myreal name on it, and i just laugh.(later i slip it beneath my mattressand spend the night staring at the ceiling.see, i've tried myself on one too manytimes, and the fit is never right.)-you call me your little compulsiveliar, and i guess that is supposedto be somewhat affectionate.or something.-i spin before the mir
Drowning InstinctTwenty secondsAnd there's no airI can't, says her bodyAnd her empty lungs agreeI can't do this anymore.Stop fighting.There is nothing,Nothing you can doNo air to breathNo strength to moveDrift.There is nothing left.Safe? They mouth it from the shore.She's not cryingOr shoutingOr waving her handsThere's no frantic splashing. .Peaceful.
Arsenic's Got a Bitter FinishSometimes, I find myself staring at you. I wonder if I can look through one of your prettily-pierced ears and see the stars branching into my name on the other side. I wonder if that would scare the hell out of me, seeing such commitment spelled out in black and blue and white on your end when I'm so complacent with being kept to myself on mine. And maybe, deep down, I'm wondering if it's really a commitment I'm so afraid of...or if it's that I'm worried that when you look at me with your heart in your glowing sunrise eyes, I'm not returning the favor.Sometimes I catch you staring at me, but I like to pretend that I don't see. Instead, I'll sweep my hair to the side because once in a while you'll brush your fingertips against my neck and I like the truth of that. You can't lie with your hands the same way you lie with your lips. Your eyes are sad, and I'm afraid of asking questions because the answers will scare me, I think. StillI want to ask you where it hurts. I want you t
Judgement"You need to stop doing this.""Stop doing what?""Writing me into your stories.""...why?""Because
it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then.""Oh really?""Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!""So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly.""Well
firstly, I'm a really nervous person.""Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting your nails.""And I don't like going out. I'm a hermit.""Except to your best friends' houses, or to the animal shelter, or to me.""And I'm dead inside.""Says the boy who hides his tears at the sight of an injured puppy.""I do not.""Yes, you do.""Anyway, I'm not always nice to you. In fact, I really don't do enough.""You're right. Except
Death"Do you fear death?"The question loomed in the air before my body, as if a sword looming over someone almost conquered by their enemy. But I looked down at my hands and then back up, only to say, "Have you ever felt the pain of watching two lovers embrace at the end of a movie? It's supposed to be a happy ending. But your heart tells your lungs to stop breathing for just a minute
because it will never ever be yours.""Do you fear death?"A question repeated deserves an answer. But instead, my trembling hands sat clenched on my lap, the blue ink like veins showing through the frail covering that might rip apart any second. "Do you know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night to hear a song, just to remind yourself, you're going to be all right? Over and over again
until it doesn't work anymore.""Do you fear death?"The invisible chain linked through my fingers, and I closed my tired eyes, this time, hearing the impatience in th
shuteyegot my mama a golden needle, butshe hid it in the hay - told methe sweet things in life are worth looking for over and over again'til your eyes just can't see anymore.
Little SecretsEverybody has their little secretsThere's a black sheep in every familyThere's a skeleton in every closetThese dirty little things nobody's talking aboutSome secrets are bigger than othersSome are darker than othersAnd some should never be disclosedI eat people.
make like yellow and slow downThis is a story about octagonsand road rage. Well, actually,this isn't a story; instead, thisis a to-do list. So complete it.*Paint a stop sign green,and GO away, one way,says an arrow on someother sign not to follow.Paint this one magenta;paint that one cerulean.Transform an entire streetinto a Crayola crayon box.Park in a no parking zone.Go directly to jail. Escape.Go three times the speedlimit, dumbass driver. Getcaught. Get a ticket. Geta life. Give me your ticket,but tell me it's for a train.Paint the railroad crossingsign invisible. Wait for it.Eat the 't' in train. "Hey,I'm a weatherman now."Flash flood alert: drownyourself. If you survivethe trainwreck, at least.Locate the nearest crosswalk,and backflip to the other side.Please get hit by a bus or caror truck. Get run over by anambulance for the Irony. Diein the hospital. I could hope.<
Introductions"Hi, I'm-""I know who you are.""You do?""You're the guy who thinks he's invisible.""I have a name-""It isn't important. Because you really don't think it's important.""All right. Since we've started out this way, let me just tell you, I know you too.""Yeah?""You're the girl who is broken.""I am not broken.""You're the girl whose eyes close every night and open the next morning, only to find you have never slept at all.""I sleep well. Besides-""You're the girl who dreams of a happy ending even though she has seen seventeen...no, eighteen unhappy ones in her eighteen years.""Happy endings are over rated. And you're-""You're the girl who wants something bigger, something stronger, just so the weakness in her body becomes something so much more.""You don't understand weakness the way-""You're the girl whose heart broke when she was so young, and she fixed it back together with superglue, but cannot ignore the cracks.""Superglue makes for a good companion, especially when-"
You've been on my mind...Quite frankly, you're heavy. Get off.
Crazy?Am I crazy?I think I am.Yup, definitely crazy.That's what I am.I must be crazy.Crazy.I have to be out of my mind.Because,I don't want to be like everyone else.I don't want to dress up.I don't want a relationship.I don't want to fall into fads.I don't want to listen to gossip.I don't want to be mean.I don't want to be super nice.I don't want to constantly be on my phone.I don't want to listen to your problems.I want to be myself.I want to wear miss-matched clothes.I want to be by myself.I want to like what I like.I want to hear silence.I want to be caring.I want to be calm.I want to deal with my own problem.I want to hear my own thoughts.I want to be myself.
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Not againns again. Yesterday I......died.It begi
an arc is an infinite number of straight linessay i& you toolike madwe wanderedwhereverto god& asked it to appear& so it soul-sprouted out of earthor spilled all star-dusted from heavenor emerged from a gang of goliath worms& was so splendidly riddled with prismsor notwe saw god in marvelous feathersof flaking gold or seven robesof mica or divinely impoverishedwith a putrid buzzard’s beardor whateverwe were destinedto perceiveour phantoms of truth beso distinctly two of thesethat they must eventuallybecome onesee:down inside the kuk, kuk & skowcrackling out each green heron beakis a different sort of timeor now than isgrown within the roh-roh-roh & awkof every great blue onesodeep within a claw of bearblack & river-blessedexists a unique airof holy spacewhich is oh-so-neveralike that which issewn within a talon of owl-birdsilent & flying ready-spreadwith fiery night-sky eyessofar along the sweet flagpatch of summer swordswithered & seeds to setwea
Condemned"Any last words?""I am innocent."
Afraid to SpeakMy lips start to tremble,I do not dare speak.I wish i could tell you,but i am too weak.My heart tenses upas days open and close.Someone, hear my plea,take me out of this doze.You walk in the doorway,i avert my gaze.Do not notice me,and do not say it's a phase.I'm sick of these words,I hear them every day.The last person i want to hear it fromis you, or i will pay.It will cut deep in me,deeper than you will know.Because i can hide it, you see,but the pain will only grow.Inside me it will stay,but i'm good at this game.You'll be none-the-wiserto this incredible pain.Don't reject this feeling,it is more than you and i.But even though it has control,i've found that i don't mind.Because it's more than what you think,more than just a sham;it's more than just a feeling -this is who i am.