I've gone out like a firefly. Quiet in the perfect perfect-ness of the rain.

(quiet quiet quiet) I have been. Not here. I am not.

Paper and photographs and candles (and music, always never). A moon in my
pen and my scissors in hand. (They slip while eyes are busy blinking.) Let
all my misery bleed out through one violated fingertip.

At least my attempts are good for something.
Inhaling smoke tastes better than the resentment on my tongue. (Silver
against teeth, and sometimes I put my hair in my mouth.) The edge of my
favourite pen. The edge of the sky outside. Anything to keep from hearing
my own voice (which is strangely small and wavering compared to the sky
outside).




.. and I'm somehow in the middle of this. Some sort of odd, misplaced cloud.

Undreaming

"I want to be someone's obsession again."

breathe again, little girl. this is my past, i'm clinging again, trying to
wear it like an affliction. toomucheyelinertoomanydrinkstoomanybroke nhearts
(and too many secrets I would never ever tell). I'm not destructive. I'm
not.

I am this, right now, a prayer slipping from smeared lipstick. I am all
tangled hair and frustrated fingers, spinning around and around and around
until it makes an impression on you. I need you to remember me.

I need you to want me.

Dislocate my impatience and level out this ragged breathing (push it down,
silence it.) Travel through it, feel the ache - let it turn you into
something that finally makes sense again.

wavering like poetry, the words under my skin are enough to tear the sky
down.

*the words under my skin are enough to bring you to your knees*

Sweet smile, wide-eyed pale little package. In some kind of mirror world, i
discovered that i was fading (as i turned-)

(I discovered that)

apathy has a beautiful face.

Undreaming.