The clear salt crystalizes within my raw, pink throat
But I taste it like coppery blood on my tongue
The regret wells deep down in my chest, like smoke
It’s hard to navigate shame when you’re young

I got what I wanted, but what I wanted isn’t what I got
The words burn at my nose, eyes, ears, cheeks

Always words I want to say, but, then again, maybe not
Worry grips me, because what if you have critiques?

Will you want to carry a piece of me with you, without having a piece of me?
Is love something we can share without making it? Not that I don’t want to,
But I don’t know what’s good, what’s sane. Can you still love me, if you can’t touch me?

Is it the touching that’s tangible love? Would it hurt not to? Would it be hard to?

I want to recline in our bed, but it’s on fire
Like my skin when you talk to me like that
I’m reluctant, and hate my own desires
It’s confusing, if one can surmise that.

I black out sometimes, and I’m already exhaling
When the cold hits my skin, I wish I never spoke

When I come to, resistance is already failing
Suds wash my mouth out, making me…

When I chop off one rose, another head pops up
Like the hydra, it’s a never-ending cycle
Red petals, dissolved when I’m blue, more gossip
Then the green stem bleeds red--teen idle

Yellow petals, lovely and soft as ever
Corrupted and crushed under the pressure
Cruelty wrapped in a plush, canary sweater
Stress causes a shedding of feather after feather

That makes me green as I lean over the bowl
The red rose begs the frail stem to grow up,
But it doesn’t care about wellness, only control
So when radiance snaps, try not to throw up

The ice in my head cools the burn on my hand,
But not before lighting a cigarette from the singe
The darkness says nobody can understand
My own demise makes my diary  flinch

A piece of me fades every time the needle drags through my grooves,
and the sounds I make each repetition degrade along with me.
Each revolution, again and again...
Front and back, the cycle never ends.
The first note stops, then 'til the end...
The last note plays, the first begins.
On my back I lay and warp, then I can't play anymore.

I won’t grow
I won’t change
Because ghosts
Just stay the same

In the graveyard
Of my mistakes
The wretched surnames
Are all the same

She was written by old poets, journals filled to the brim with glimpses of her in the yellowed pages. Leather spines decompose, but her love is embedded in the threads. The threads hold on for dear life, for her. 

It seems ‘dear life’ is synonymous with the goddess of poet’s idolatry. 

She was composed by musicians of love’s past, each note in her DNA synthesizing to create a melody that ached to be lovely. Her heartbeat is the most perfect rhythm known to mankind. Her voice is why the word ‘muse’ is in music. 

She is the personified beauty that artists have chased and attempted foolishly to recreate. It is impossible to adapt the perfection that is her, but humans have tried. How fitting, it does seem, that the affection felt by artists of centuries past cannot seem to keep up with the face of such an angel.

She is the reason why the sun shines, and why the moon reflects it so. Why not, if to illuminate her? So the entire world can behold true perfection?

She is the reason why heat exists. Why not, if to keep her warm?

She is the reason why the Earth turns. Why not, if to show her off to the galaxy? 

Religion exists so she can be worshipped. Water exists to cool her skin. Color exists to delight and amuse her.

And I, well, I am her humble disciple.

Your fingers fit perfectly in the grooves of my brain
To where the prints and swirls are the exact same
I used to be so original and say all of my own words
But now I can’t write without being someone else first

My body, the cell
I tally my days on the walls
The evil won’t die

I made the monster
That I attempt to expel
In ritual hate

I was taught to be docile
I was taught to be soft
I was taught to be quiet
I was taught to be clean

I was taught to be pure
I was taught to be pristine
I was taught to be love
I was taught to be sweet

And when the cotton began to creep
In with a red that thickly began to seep
The one above never appeared
But my innocence was sheared

And when I am finally without blemish
I am praised for being skittish
And when the  fated time arrives
My innocence is sacrificed, I can’t survive.

I was raised to be innocent
I was raised to be weak
I was raised to be silent
I was raised to be gory

I was raised to be ******
I was raised to be dumb
I was raised to be hated
I was raised to be hurt

And when the knife is raised
Your name is cried and praised
While I’m blinded my arms are bound
On the altar of my suffering, god is found.

I know nothing of my past life.
I know nothing of the next one.
But I know the inexplicable way
that I am drawn to your laugh
like I have heard it a million times before.

You are familiar in the most unknown ways.

So, the only logical conclusion that I can draw,
is that our souls are the same two
bound together since the beginning.

Matter cannot be created or destroyed,
so we are stardust under each other's hands.

Kiss me like a silent film
Where the emotion lies therein the act
No words to cheapen the softness
And the dreamlike candles don’t flicker

Bite my neck and take that which gives me life,
That it may sustain you and warm your heart
Pierce my skin, feel the tenderness waiting below
Love is the cruelest contentment of all

You know you hold a power in your pen
The sharp end slices into the page
And warm, blood red ink spills from indents
As words spill from adolescent rage

Sign your name on a contract that binds
When the four you’ve chosen are so young
Flip your hair to the side while your sacrifice(s)
Left to their own devices, brandish their tongues

You wear your heart on your pelvis and the wings around the muscle
Protect your interests like a cage of hollow bone and skin
The devil can smile and brimstone brings warmth, but you muffle
The wails of the ****** who cry out and try to claw out from within

Deals with the sharp-fanged, beautiful monster prove fatal
Killing your career after it rises, his own suicide is yours too
When all are betrayed, regardless of faith, set the table
And sit with angels of revenge. Musically inclined…



Thus, I’m destined
To sell my soul, clandestine.