lemonade

and it's just a glass of water

you're staring into

and you're the cup's

half-full

kind of girl

and the water tastes

a lot more bitter than it should

it's the corners of his smile

that reach out like chains

to wrap around your ankles

and p u l l you in

and you're drowning in it

drowning in your reflection

soaking up the reflected light through your pores

you drink it in

the condensing beads of self-hatred and loathing

running d

                o

                     w

                                                         n the side of your glass

and you're caught in this m    z    of thought

                         a    e 

itunes on repeat

                                     how did i miss this?

what's wrong with me?

                                                   what did i fuck up this time?

and maybe, maybe a part of you is asking

what did i do right?

what did i do so perfectly that it managed to push you to this?

[and maybe a part of you thinks

that this is all you'll ever deserve

-- it's not.]

a lone droplet

sends a thousand ripples across

the inertial waters

and it's stained your cheeks

and let's not kid ourselves, here.

you've never been

a

glass

half

full

kind of girl,

and maybe,

maybe

that's just fine.

for thedreamer

i love you, always, and be strong.

Spring is ending

. f r a g i l e .
i am her and she is
[ me ]


and soon my existence
will wilt
like summer flowers.

note: sort of mini collaboration with thedreamer

she is

she's always lived in between,
in grays,
and hesitation,
and dreams.

there is more to art, she says, than just technical ability.
and so i make my words t a k e  u p all this s p a c e so no one see how hollow they are,
[how hollow i am]
whilst hers--

                             inky hair and parchment skin and candle-lit eyes;
                             watch her cadenza crescendo and split a p a r t at the seams,
                             each note and simile and metaphor and feeling
                             a thrumming baseline in her head
                             as her muse tangos with shadows,
                                 and makes love to light.

i am a streetlight amongst the backdrop of a meteor shower.

for thedreamer

dear dryad daughter, time's a-tickin'

(for thedreamer)

-tick
        there's a grandfather clock adorned in twisting oak,
        and it looms above you, ancient, mad and menacing,
                                                                                       -tock,
tick-
        the pendulum's burnished edge reflects his g-g-green
        eyes and it swings serenely from one side to the o-
        ther like conversation and banter 'tween you should,
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        there's clear glass covering the gold as hands worry
        away across a glinting face and you've always been
        a tad transparent to those who know how to look,
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        marble floors just create a thousand overlapping
        shadows, parts of his personality you never ever
        wanted to see; he walks away, the best things end.
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        there's a grandfather clock adorned in twisting oak,
        and it looms above you, taking up it's old bad-paid
        job; it looms above you and shields you from the
        world.
                                                                                      -tock.

"i think we need to get that clock fixed."
"no, leave it. it's always been like that."

walk away

(for thedreamer, pour ma belle)

you watch his back,
  not because you're protective,
but because he's walking away,

his shirt is perfectly ironed -- by his mother, no doubt --
  and its a blankblankblank white,
and a cynical part of you remarks that it looks kind of like these walls that i'm trapped in,

you can still see his hair,
  feel it, even; his face once hovering inches above yours,
and your hands used to card through, smoothly; you've always had the best pokerface

there's an iloveyou somewhere in there
  but you think it's diminishing unlike the space he makes between you two, footsteps echoing like drums;
if he's not around, who can hear you fall?

vintage love

"please don't leave me alone..."

"i promise i won't ever leave you alone"

the sentence that echoes through everyone's mind--like a thousand voices that drown you in solitude as you huddle within yourself by yourself.

the sentence that echoes through your mind when you see them, an endless mantra because, goddamnit, you believe in nothing -- nothing -- but them,

our hearts are like g l a s s

chipped antiques stacked on dusty shelves,

no one wants.

written with thedreamer, who is awesome but - sadly - not dreamy. ;D

love you.

(kind of)

loveleaks

she touches you softly,
softly over stressed, stretched skin;
no soul will spill,
seep into your skin,
from the grooves of her fingertips.

it's hard for her, not loving you.
it's easier to lie and say she doesn't.

pour ma belle.