She is

Like a slightly cracked piece of china. A little off, but looks salvageable. Turn it sideways. No one will notice. It will sit in the cabinet, just like the rest. Perfect. From afar, you can hardly tell. There’s nothing wrong. Until you pick it up, without realizing just how delicate you should really be. This little china teacup would like you to think it’s just as sturdy as the others but really, it shouldn’t be for you, for use, for anything at all. No, no.

You wouldn’t even have to rough it up a bit. Toss it around a little, hold it a little too tightly, or just plain’ old forget about each and every accident that led to each widening crack and– there she goes. Right, right down the middle. Who knew it to be so fragile.

A crack can slowly split in a cup in half, you know, if you use it before it’s fully repaired.

I am so sick of being sick and tired.

Not being able to breathe or sleep or stay awake.
Tired of taking medications for medications.
Easing the pain but throwing up.
Brittle bones make clicking noises.
It’s quiet.

I can’t feel my hands. I’m tired of these little pills and doctors that talk down to me.
I just want to sleep, sleep endlessly.

i shouldn’t be with anyone
i shouldn’t talk to anyone
i should
not.

I hate who I am when I’m around you. I really do. It’s barely been twenty-four hours and I’m fourteen again. Remember when I used to hide? In size I am far too large to manage the enclosed spaces. I don’t want to go back to then. I’m tired of metaphors and analogies. My head hurts and I am the opposite of claustrophobic. I just want to stay locked within these closed doors, I’m happy here inside myself. Away from you. 

---

 
Ask me why she scares me.  Do you wanna know why I’m angry? 
Can’t you tell I’m crying? Mother, I don’t feel good. 

 

You will always be the bitter, saddest part of me. 

I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I scorn at the flesh and blood we share, it simmers and jabs at me creating ulcers, animosity and self disdain. You are the illness within me, this parasite consuming, overwhelming. Could you ever possibly understand? I retreat into myself and I am sick to stomach. I could cry if there was anything left in me. But I call upon the unfeeling to bring back the dead in me. Anesthesia as inoculation, I could sleep for one hundred years. Sleeping beauty covered in blood. Go back to your veins. I’d never cut anything up but you. (How would you feel if you knew my confession, of the terrible things I have done?)

I vomit out my heart for you. I don’t want to be this way anymore.
– – - -
Did you think you know me? I am so much worse than you would have imagined. I am a cynic in disguise, ill-suited for this misadventure. I am a corpse who cannot breathe. I am wrath and force, with the hide of a human girl. My demons would be the death of me, if only if I were living.

crazy.

could it be
that i am so cold i am with fever?
if only i could find a name for this disease
but there are no finding symptoms
i check myself in
could this be an emergency?

nurses in sponge divert their eyes
begin with the h (speak not such a word)
the bottom of the rolling bed
placebo filled iv
injecting
paranoia
into my veins
the floors are
far too clean.
(they speak of death. foreign bankruptcy of the immune
sort. they whisper of tragedy.
have we danced upon them yet?
perhaps.)

these sheets, do we cower under them?
marked: get out
provide for more useful

end
bringing home boxes of apple juice
empty
a cast for my
heart

i am far too comfortable
in hospitals

as plainly as i can speak

if you can’t fall into my giveaways,
i should perhaps fall into a silence.
i am not the loving kind, not yet, in the skin sort of skin.
i speak in riddles and craft and touch, brush and buss
(the former the skewer of the lot, rely little on hormal imbalances)

but here and only here
at this point
i will admit to this
when you have been away: i have come to miss you.
it is a slow ache that churns in me, and i could perhaps

simply
be
confused.
(the commanlity and the symmetry
of our liason: simply common practice
familiarity? do either of us actually know?)

ever the undogmatic busker, your six dollar performer
i am always on foot.
travelling.
moving.
would i know consistency
or anything (real)
if it stood right before me
change set in hand (renounce thy entertaining ways!)

never the self-righteous.
ever the righteous.
(wrong)

i realize
i can be negligent in my ways
you should be wary;

this should be constant.
remember. i am godless.

You used to ease through my mind like pornography, grabbing hold of every moral thought and fucking them, slowly and painlessly. You moved like music, your skin, my skin, perfection.

How little we move, we change, within five or so years. I will never be new. At least it’s not simply as terrible. Or perhaps it is.

minus the PG (sexual)

i/can’tconcentrate

maybe you only thought you wanted a bite

this is not my human skin—- i am no seraphim
there is no guise under the ruse of my mortality
(but that makes little sense)

---

in fruit, imagine a lemon: in small doses and a dash of sugar
you simply cannot get enough
and still
to get to enough for a taste
hours of labour
restless hands
you near dementia
while simply squeezing and squeezing
just for a drop

the lemonade may be worth it
but you need just so much.

the lemon on its, yellow and ovular: how tempting
you imagine its citrus. the beauty. it catches your eye.
sink
your
teeth
in
but then
upon unwrapping its peel
and take a bite
into that delicious looking —–

spit it out.
acerbic (the truth)

the truth is, if you want to eat that lemon
really get inside of it
without a little sugar
you will not be able to handle it.
no,
you really won’t want it anymore.
would you?
if only you had known.
if only you knew.

never forget about appearances.

YOU ONLY THOUGHT YOU WANTED IT.