this self-loathing is too much for me to bare.
i mean i bare everything:
the actions, the words,
the snickers with
an inflamed chest.
and the struggle cannot be conquered;
i am no soldier, no fighter - subhuman.
i struggle for a sense of purpose
like an infected toilet brush
or maybe a half-chewed pencil eraser. quality beats quantity
but i cannot quantify how many tears i have shed
or the glass-stained memories
that leave ****** scratches on mind.
all along there was no end to this journey,
but shattered dreams paint a more vivid picture
than happiness ever could.

i beg the shadow to lift the darkness from the corner
but it gazes at me with such condescension.
it then begins to fantasize about my dreams.
it can remember things i can't
and it can haunt me from a distance -
watching, lurking,
breathing.
but i am the dull flame
that will extinguish its desire.

adulthood will surface
and as I awkwardly ***** my childhood,
i fear independence.

rushing to the non-relinquished title of happiness,
we turn with such blind faith at reality
for that once chance of obtaining a smile
or maybe even a grin that is involuntary.
but joyful stories are myths and glee is a lie
because how can anyone move those mouth muscles
with such abject sadness in the world.
i try to eliminate my feelings because feelings are feelings
and i'd rather not feel than feel bad
but no one wants to here a sob story.
i softly add fervor to my daily life for it to be destroyed
but valiantly i survive the day
but unfortunate my pillow won't -
drowning in the saltiness that emits from my eyes.
but it'll get better, that's what they always say.
but what if doesn't? should i be forced to drown in the misery
like my pillow or will i learn to not succumb to my feelings
and triumph over the cold air running through my hair.
no.
they will win.
they have won.
but i will come back.
higher than ever.
dancing on the empire state building because nothing will
consume me except my nerves.
because i am valiant.
not.

you pull on my heartstrings,
plucking with a sensational force,
encroaching my temple.
you shake with such a sensibility,
prancing across the barren trench
of loneliness.
tiny toenails scratch the surface of the skin,
scarring my edifice,
emasculating my core.
but language has power.
it swarms,
creating the metamorphosis of a human -
from a body
to a living creature.

aching
with undue envy,
i smile.
and every muscle that is forced out of place
takes its anger out on my frowns.
standing over my bed,
i lie.
i deceive.
i offer no explanation,
and my teeth chatter
from the coldness of others.
but,
it's okay.
'cause i'm ostensibly happy.

it kindles with a passion
only met by her deep hatred for love.
it blossoms
like a girl losing her virginity
by force.
the pedals are silky,
releasing their insides on your outsides.
the sidewalk blooms with rocks and cracks
and so does her image of herself.
the desert air is as dry as her personality,
but the indian blood
flows more heavily
than it does from the cuts on her arm.
but she fakes it.
we fake it.
her spin graces the stage
in a frenzied, intricate pattern.
she closes her eyes.
counts to three.
till time loses itself on her body.