Hey You

I sit there bleeding my heart out to you, gesticulating wildly with my hands, crying with my mouth, swirling the voices in my head with a spoon and letting you taste them.
“Enough”, you say firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking straight into my lying hazel eyes, “You need to stop thinking so much.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, squirming under your gaze.
“Why can’t you just..be? You’re killing yourself slowly. No one cares anyway. Get over yourself.”
I pull your hair and hold you to it.
You breathe in under the weight of my hand on your head, clenching your fists.
You wouldn’t dare.
“What do you want?” you say quietly.
For once I think about it and as always I stare blankly at the colours in your hair mutely screaming at the Voice in my Head that calls out to you.
I can feel the answer throbbing through my veins, curling in my blood stream, shimmering through my hair.
I leave yours and run.
Fast.
Away.
They say that whatever you’re running away from will always catch up with you.
Where are you?
I’m falling.
Come find me before Gravity steals you for herself.
Slut.

Narcissist inc.

My Idea of Hell is a roomful of mirrors, look directly into one and it cracks. The mirrors metamorphosize you, each one holding someone you love trapped, torn, in pain. Touch it, and they die, smile and they bleed deeper, cry louder, hurt more.
You stare at their faces and are forced to think of situations where they’ve been contorted in the same positions, hearts bleeding, eyes red and swollen, body contracting, moments where their faces are contorted in grief, instances where their bodies look like they can shatter at the least touch, a hug, anything, nothing.
And then you remember. They blind you, your memories. Once you start, you can’t stop.
That’s your mother, the day you told her you hated her, threw that ugly glass vase, an antique, slammed the door in her face and stalked off to smoke up.
That’s your sister, the day you screamed at her and called her a promiscuous bulimic bitch. You begged for her to die and laughed as she held the cold silver kitchen knife to her thin veined hands, so like yours.
That’s your brother, the day you broke his nose with your tennis racket and how you refused to apologize because he ‘told that boy you had a thing for that you had a thing for him’.
That’s you father, the day you failed math and told him you wanted to drop out of school and be a bartender, the day you screeched at him for loving you less and ran away for the night.
That’s your best friend.
That’s your ex boyfriend.
That’s your favourite cousin.
That’s your soulmate….
Round and round and round
They’re all there, their pain tearing scars across your body and your mind.
Only you can make them stop, take it back, kiss their hurt away and bandage their wounds.
But you can’t.
You’ve lost the choice.
Welcome to Hell.

You can't hide the cracks

I feel broken lately, hollow.
I’ve lost even the miniscule part of me that wants to pretend to be happy because somehow, it’s just not worth it.
I see you, in your boxers and your Maiden tee shirt and your hair and your eyes and your converse and your madness and I expect to feel something, anything.
But I don’t.
And you don’t want me.
Who would? I’m young and depressing, I smile with my mouth and sit in corner almost begging for peace. I don’t twirl my hair around my fingers, I don’t touch you when I talk to you, I let you tickle me without bothering to squirm and when I tell you I don’t feel, I mean it.
Any hot blooded male would lose interest so I don’t blame you.
The problem here is..I lied.
I do feel. But I feel when I least expect it and when it hits me it’s like I can’t breathe.
I’m drowning underwater and my senses have been numbed. I’m not flailing about, I’m watching the sharks, eager almost, to catch the blue turn red.
Sometimes I think I want you but then I see the side of you that is human with its imperfectness-the way you burp and think it’s funny, how you scratch your head when you’re thinking, the way you drum anything right in front of you, the feeling in your eyes which makes you human, the catch in your voice and the way you say ‘what else’ when you don’t want me to hang up but mostly, I hate that you don’t WANT me, not really.
I’m just there, in between, someone who’ll call you back cause you don’t have balance, someone who’ll come for a walk or a movie cause all your friends are out of town..you don’t care.
But like I said, I don’t blame you.
I’m not worth it.
You deserve someone who wants to live.
Baby boy, I'm a blur.
Run.

Life line, Life lies

You don't know what it's like. This..cage. Beautiful smooth grills, pretty painted nothingness, sullied oxygen that lets you live only so it can watch you die.

You want to know what the greatest hoax in the history of mankind is? God? Close enough. Fucking Hope hanging herself from the streetlamps, skinning us alive, curling her claws around our dreams and giving us something to look forward to,

And then, Hope dances for us, doesn't she? Pretty Hope. All silk stockings and tutu skirts, ball gowns and football jerseys, tuxedos and leather, whatever turns you on,

Only to distract you from the cruelty of Life while he steals you of everything you have ever loved.

Partners in Crime.

They've leeched us of our life blood, only to do it again, and again. Till we look Hope in the eye and take Life into our own hands, Till she cries a lovers sorrow and he reeks of murder, Till we are left with blood staining our hands,

And we will never know whether it is ours or theirs.
Sometimes, we are dead with Hope and in Life long before Death strangles us with his cape.

They call it suicide. I blame those two, Partners in Crime.