I told her
Do not wrap your hair around your fingers
and claw at the nape of your neck.
There is no zipper in your gorgeous flesh
and no laces in your spine.

Break your fingers and
stare too long into the sun.
I pray you stand on the porch and
smile at the oncoming storm.
I will chase it away and catch your breath
when you are winded
from running out of time.

I was perplexed by your
martyr complex
when you followed the red roads
searching for that which I have hidden
in my own skin.

And if you feel you really must
find your way to the dead end path,
You must first carve
the map from my own flesh.

I will be your guide.
I will not let you go.

A few kind words
a few worry-some questions
maybe a motherly embrace
and I would be sitting in yellow patches of sunlight
dancing across the kitchen floor
gorging myself on baked goods
not a scraggly girl with empty eyes and stomach
begging for attention
from all the wrong places
and attention is one thing I received
But they led me to believe
It was all I was good for.

I was yanked from my childish day dreams,
plunged into a cess-pool of evaluation and judgement
before my 15th birthday.

I have yet to venture outside my own country's borders,
yet to feel unconditional love from eyes unseen,
I can't even cook my own dinner.

They ****** me into the hot seat,
where are you going?
how will you get there?
Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Maybe eating olives on my balcony,
crying over wasted years and broken fingers.
And they tell me
'Study hard, your future depends on it.'
as if my future revolves around
letters on a piece of paper,
teaching me that percentages
and values
define my self-worth.

Subliminal messaging.
Grades before morals.
And now I look at the scale and the digits
line up
three men to be executed
by firing squad.
And I was taught from the age of six
that these numbers represent
my life.

I am numbers
on a scale
on a report card
a g.p.a
a percentage on a test.

Society looks upon me
as a resume.
A collection of fake numbers and symbols
and they decide,
based upon this ****** little game of
calculations,
what life you deserve.

A content life is looked down upon
much akin to how
a crow looks upon the ways of the moth.
'Why spend your life
chasing what eludes you
only to persih by it's hands in the end?'
asks the crow.

'It's the brightest light I have ever looked upon,
therefore the best,
and if I find myself beside the light
I shall be happy.'
retorts the moth,
it's eyes aglow.

The crow looks on at the
vain attempts of a common insect,
lusting after the blinding hand of death,
glittering, buzzing
above their heads.

'Why don't you join me, Crow?
We can chase this light together,
maybe you will find it's glory as well.'

The crow peers curiously at the moth,
addled by the enthusiasm
of chasing such an obvious,
insatiable pleasure.

'I prefer to fly.
I can see all the lights in the world
from above.'
He gestures to the window.
'I have all the fruits of the earth
spread before me.
Mine for the taking
at my leisure.'

But the moth never looked away
from the enticing, electrical bulb.
It buzzed and flew
and smacked against the hot glass.
With one final effort to enter the light,
it popped and found itself on the earthen ground,
lost in a graveyard of conformity.

The crow shivered at the sight
of life wasted on material things
and gaudy glory.
He spread out his wings
and ventured into the evening air
to watch the sun sink behind fushia hills.

We are born not of flesh
carved from the visage of mother and father,
We are born of nebulae,
of a symphony in the snow and
the seeking of knowledge we never acquire.
We are birthed for
good.
We are grown in
evil.
Our lives nothing more
than the squealing of wheels
as they spin in our
sempiternal filth,
a footprint in the dust since God said
"Let there be fear and malice".
Faces of dead, liquored men,
shovels in our piracy
digging for hidden treasure in the graveyard.
So we crawl in the holes and
cover each other up.
Insulting the demons who pull us through,
blessing them
with good tidings.
We go at our passing, to face the Devil.
God as our jury,
your hamartia plays witness.
I am driven only by my fantasy of tomorrow.
What a way to live.
What a way to die.

Infatuation bought you time
to infiltrate the delicate tubes of her heart and organs
with pretty words
and the stroke of your fingers
dancing along her collar bones.
She was a violin wailing sweetly
in the broken silence,
wisps of your hair in her fist
as you demonstrated to her your lustful
affection.
She clung to you.
knowing she was an instrument,
never admitting to warfare in her blood
that boiled in fervor.
White blood cells facing a legion
of your searing kisses
that swam through her veins
till she bled them out.
Your lips sang in harmony with hers
as they pressed against her neck and shoulders
moving urgently from place to place.
She lie there beneath the weight of your body
seething with guilt
while you thought only of the girl down the lane
whom had never felt your touch.
Uncharted territory , you thought.
And you left.