A dark exchange.

Sunlight over me no matter what I do. My heart is being burned from Within my chest. No longer protected, no longer being held warmly in your palms and kissed softly with your poetry. Everyone holds flashlights that reveals my burnt spots. I try to block. Sunlight finds me no matter where I go.

Where ever you are, do you think of me? As I think of you. Are your hands cold and dark from where my heart once were? shadows that used to hide us from the world, are my shadows I can't seem to find. I want them back, damnit please. The sunlight hurts my eyes and burns my heart and leaves dry spots on my skin.. Give me back, give me back, give me back...my darkness.

Sitting in the dark

Sitting in the dark. Her left eye watches the present while the right views the past. She feels disconnection with the future and disappointment with time in general. Her usual illuminating comfort is at a standstill, the feeling being similar to a brightly lit light bulb giving off no heat.

Left eye twitches after watching the gradual dimming of another once blinding light, she grew cold and turned the switch off altogether as tears pools under her lids without permission. There is a room, absent of light and inside sits a girl shrouding herself in secluding darkness staring into the nothing around her.

Elegy

He hated his wrists.
if one was to look
closely at just the right time.
With the perfect tilt
and in the
correct kind of light.
One can almost catch a glimpse
of his long thin
failed attempt

Phone calls,

You abandoned me in my own world. Left me to be my own guide and yet have to nerve to call me your shining star. Your goddamn hero. I think not. You say I have to hold your hand to keep you from going under, the very hands that let me go under.

I hate looking at you and seeing the absolute adoration on your face. You love me so much dont you? Are you happy that in me, you see the only good you have ever had in your shit life?

Its true, that everything you touch is ruined instantly. Leaving in your wake a trailing sea of infantile tears, no matter where you wander. Is that why you stayed away after I drowned in my own sea?

Just because I was pulled up just in time dont mean you didnt ruin me. I'm just dissolving at the bottom.

Relapsing pt 2

Relapsing yet again. Injecting more ink from her heart and out of her hand. So much writing that her fingers becomes swollen. Water burns and bandages itch. It bleeds out pain and bliss unlike no one could ever hope to understand.

From the start to finish it overwhelms her. Surfing the skin and bringing chill bumps with pleasure outlining each hair. But afterward its always a fight to stay warm. She wonders how could it feel this wrong.

It hurts to breath as her stomach decides to be sick. The end always leave her feeling so defeated. It disgusting to see the hold it has on her. Instead of the hold she supposed to have on the pencil. Because the only cure she has for the stinging, the only ointment available to heal the wounds caused by her obsession is more writing.

sick withdrawals

The highway stretched far, and I have yet to see an end. My feet hurt and My body hurts even more. Today the angels touched my chest and praised my heart. But they refused to chase away the cough that runs after me tonight. Or the drowsiness.

Or the headaches.

Temptation was thrown at me. But I see no point if the nausea wont let me keep them down. No point at all.

Pills and Skills

This poet held denial in her trembling hands as the doctor said
she have to be under for the rest of her life.

That what she was giving me was not a cure but a clutch.

I felt reluctant to accept. I can break under the side effects.
Loose myself with each and every one of them.

And clutches can be broken just as easily as many pencils. Which
was my existing dosage The one thing that do help but just
isnt enough any more.

But the symptoms at the moment are too great and
I cant ignore the signs anymore. Even if I write it all down.
Store them in a box on the back shelf, and bottle it away. I
still would not be cured, like I used to be.

The words I write are still going to be there. Unreadable to most
due to the shaking from fingers that refuse to sit still and the elaborate
mind of an introvert.

Tremors versus Anxiety.

How was we supposed to know there was something wrong?

Sorting through the dictionary to find the perfect word. Melancholy isn't quiet right but its the closest I've gotten so far. Hours spent on this meaningless task and yet I cant get out of the mind set of 'I have else nothing better to do.'

The rain makes me sleepy. But the thunder keeps me awake. Laying in this bed, I think I've slept for too long, or is it that I have been up for 3 days? I don't know. Forgetful is another good word that comes to mind.

Either way I have no desire to leave the protection of my blankets, the barrier of my walls and the pillows that brings the temporary comfort I need to keep away the lonelies.

That actually is a depressing thought, when one thinks about it. Okay scratch what I said, melancholy is the exact word I am looking for.

Fake wings

Feeling the closest to being happy only comes when she is alone. Mixing her blood with poison makes loneliness easier to deal with if she is on her own.

There isnt enough hate left. All that remains are the memories that tug on her sleeves, wanting to be picked up and held tightly. But her arms were too heavy from a drug induce to take part. She is choking on her own words, scared of her own actions, her emotions at the very surface, dying to break through.

But she wont let them.

Stuck on the stairs to Heaven

Standing on the stairwell she realized that she’s lost again. Blank gazes from heaven freezes her to hell. Drilling eyes of disappointment screws deeper into her soles. Preventing her from moving forward and forces her to watch as everyone continues to climb.

If she stood here long enough will her hair become rotten, her skin turn to soft lovely moss as she becomes another past without a future? Another tear fallen with the rain, will she be forgotten?

She is unsure.
So she sits and waits.

Tape

Broken, was her name. Solitary blocked her ears from comfort. Memories sealed tight to prevent spills, but could not stop the shattered tears. Grief flowing so free, far from being contained.

Breathing in whiskey sorrow. Diving underneath the influence with grace so slick and smooth. Heart ache too painful for other healings. Giving nothing to look forward into the gray 'marrows.

Loneliness was the tape that had a bitter charm and the power to soothed. As it held her together deep in their arms.