i.

​I'm a once in a blue moon type of scene. A dry season who can't take a fucking joke or unravel her reflection on a stranger's sink. A second voice, all my stories have already been told by someone wiser, prettier, and old.

​I'm the main attraction on a drizzly type of spectacle. A ghost on a girl's skin. I'm a crack on a moon's echo. Seven days of resurrection only to realize I'm back at the deep end. I'm a sleepy type of girl. Always awake, waking up late, a high number on a scale.

​It's frustrating, I open up myself to the viewer's appetite but the taste won't make you nail my flavor. I'm covered in your favor like a snare. A palate cleanser.

I mean it, look at me, center of stage!

I'm the main attraction but who would want me anyways? Everyone I love says I belong on dim lights. I'm a viewer's harmony on a good day. ​An old tale, a timeless deceit. Vienna by Billy Joel but in the wrong key. All the right ingredients but fundamentally wrong. You're not getting a vision's taste by ear alone. ​All the moaning and bitchin' got me here.

The center of the scene.

I'm not the final girl. You're out to get me.

​"Aren't you like a part of the ensemble?"

​Well, actually, the stage is empty, the exit is on the right.

full speed

a brutal blast

for it scratched a tender patch of depletion

i hit the wall

full speed

sooner or later you'll find out

I bend like a crook

and my bones are made of dust

i hit the wall

for i cannot make anyone like me

barely myself on a good day

for i cannot wake up

without a dreading heart

I am sick to my bones! my lungs! my vocal chords! all of me! a mess to follow!

look at me, for i am made of dust

i hit the wall

and what you don't face

will catch you by your ankles

and make you beg and crawl

to a higher man

full speed

open wound

the doctors gave you until the end of the week

but you can't keep playing jesus

and to be fair

you'll probably bury me

before i can get well

oh love,

i hit the wall

full speed

for my blues

are made of dust

and they smothered my nature

a brutal blast

they'll cry

when they bury me

before I'll bury you

lately

I am the hour at which i wake up

late at night

or the crack of dawn

lately

I am a knot of a knot

of a knot of a knot

of a fucking knot

lately

I am not sure i can face my picture;

an echo of a crack in the moon

inside a foul basin

i love me

i love me not

lately

I am not even sure i have what's left of me

to unravel all my knots

and finally find a crack of light

told everyone i know

that my head is full of poison

and my body rotten from the inside out

they answered instead

how much they love to see me perform

(a puppet without strings

'cause i'd hang myself

if you give me even a tiny bit of rope to try)

told everyone i know

that my sadness can't keep itself indoors

i tally up the months

if you give me time in my sickness

I'll dig a hole with the shape of my demise

and while the girl inside tries to get me into medication

I'll pace the walls, scratch the doors

they love to see me haunting the halls

for i am the ghost you can rely upon

the friendly vision in whose guts you can snack

i told myself you love me

despite your discordant speech and inconsistent nature

for i was also earthly before

and longed for all divine

(a small creature of feeble nature

i was found in a ditch

while you made it back home)

It is officially the seventh day

I must, by all means, resurrect

sweep the dust out of my face

get off my knees

and beg for my plaudit

I, who have eaten out of myself

who have given everyone (and then some) a taste

must start to exert my ego

before it’s too damn late

Though it’s too late already

for I had to wake up on the seventh day

with a new well-built anima

not this languorous apparition

I am the interval

you have to avoid reaching

by the seventh day,

the sixth night

I feel like a visitor in my own life most days

like the sun will set and I will get a seat

in the corner of my ribs

where it is not quite warm but not quite cold

I will see the exact moment

where all the tendrils in my heart

will get obstructed

the exact moment

where my persecutor will catch up

with all the time I wasted away

the exact moment

where her mask will be my own

and there won’t be any time left for us both

The saddest girl I know is made out of flesh and bones

but I am made out of sticks and stones

sitting by a window sill

by the edge of my breasts

Futures don’t close

by the time we both realize that

all we will have left is a cobweb of what ifs behind

textures of a past that refuses to settle

and by the time I realize that

my palms will already be up

holding the possibilities

that didn’t end up as blood on the floor ᨒ↟ 𖠰

"STEP BACK, FUTURES DON’T CLOSE!"

I read it on a sign

like an apparition knocking on my wooden door

𓆣 Neither of us could live up to our expectations

and I might be a little bit too much for everyone

guess we’ll never know 𓇢𓆸

‘cause we inevitably fell between the cracks

and our imminent friction killed all the potential

a shame, really (the rain has made a mess of the garden)

It’s never been rare for him to lose control.

I’m coming back home, with my keys clutched and cheeks dry. A rare sight. He loves it when I cry, whether he realizes it or not; I ignore that. I told myself, last time and the time before that, that I wouldn’t speak up, but we both know me. I am always a paragraph away from slipping and spilling. I think this madness, the silence before the inevitable storm, excites him. I think he’s more of a mirror than a person. I think my glass is half empty. I think I am older now, so what’s this fuckery, anyway?

There’s an old saying that goes, “If there is not a violent dog in your home, you’re the violent dog.” I think about it often, with my face against the soil and my teeth all bared. I thought I was granted the privilege of not reliving the past. I thought I was granted silence, but lately, I have been feeling guilty, and the tick of an old clock is nothing but unnerving. I pace and pace and pace. My friends hate my grief on the stereo, but my chore is like a fountain, broken in its main mechanism. Everything that I love is prone to destroying or clogging me in the end. As a child, I was promised safety; as an adult, I’ve grown to understand it’s just a different flavor of the same hyper-vigilance I once carried as a girl.