A Loose Interpretation of SaneYou ask for honesty,for understanding,for the facts: frigid and real.You stand in the bathroom,hands on that stomach- flat as a flounder, hard and rigid -and try to believe that sometimesbeauty is pain.They speak truthsyou wish were lies,and stand beside you strong,as your world: weak and shakytumbles to the ground.You finger those old wounds- the ones you try to forget -toying with the blade that promises relief,and the whole time you're biting back the wordsyou carved into your pelvis and kidneys.[FAT; STUPID; WORTHLESS;IDIOT]You believe them,that's why you do it.You purge that bitter happinessand flush your dreams down the toiletalong with those crackers and peanut butter.You stumble through life,alone, confused, failing at every taskbecause your body just can't take it anymore.But you won't give up:no, you'll never give up,because no matter how much they tell you otherwise,no matter how much you wish it wasn't true,those words etched in scar-t
HimShe could have listened to him play all night.His voice was silken like his tie and just sharp enough on the high notes to remind you that he sang without sheet music. His fingers found the piano keys on their own, moving without reason or rhyme or conscious thought on his part; they improvised where they could and flickered across beautiful, breathless grace notes that made you lean in close to listen. Every once in a while he would hit a wrong note, gorgeously sinister, just to remind you that, yes, even he made mistakes sometimes. If you watched him, you noticed that he closed his eyes when he played and you could see them moving gently behind his eyelids, lost in a dreamlike trance, dancing to the music.She watched him, memorized him, and sipped her long-since cold coffee, barely noticing the time or place or the fact that she missed her mouth and stained her jeans cocoa-bean brown. She tapped her fingers, and whispered to herself under her breath, and wrote him poems on her napk
JohnI raced a crippled boy today,out in the sun,bet him ten green bottle-caps his legsweren't dead, had simply forgotten the thrillof flight: the fight.And out in hotter-than-hell heat,he dumped his safety brakesand I dumped my sneakers,and together we hit the pavement running;hindered by wheelchairs and blistering feet.For thirty-seven seconds we were equals;two people strung up in a too-loose noose of hope,released by an opportunity.It was three blocks of screaming, screeching,agonized agony for both of us,and I'm sure my feet will never feel again;just like his legs, suspended before him.The whole neighborhood came out to watch,lawn chairs and lemonade and all,and I flat-out ignored them.Their anger washed over me,but I simply said "your legs aren't dead, John. Nothing is ever truly dead,just sleeping -- soundlessly."All that disbelieving-rage beaded up like sweatand erupted through the crowd,but we ranand ran, laughing and wincing the whole way.I cross
She IsShe is tears falling down freckled cheeks, and veins showing through skin stretched taut. She is a capsule; a beautiful, tragic shell crammed full of words and melodies and bits of driftwood. She is amber eyes sizzling and foaming with spite and loathing. She is white shadows in the darkness, and newly fallen snow, tainted, like innocence lost before it has had time to bloom.She wears red. It is her punishment, her sin, her attempt at forgiveness (retribution), her constant reminder that sometimes evil defeats good. She pours her entire soul into paintings; spewing her emotions onto wall-length canvases and smearing them into macabre metaphors that remind her of hope spattered with blood.She is bones shifting beneath shaking hands and fingers wrapped in ribbons; a clever mind reduced to gray matter spotted with rotten, insidious blackness. She is a calendar turned to January in the hopes that time will flow faster; she is a watch with only one hand, because seconds are all
This Isn't Who I AmEmotional breakdown 2.Public humiliation.People staring, watching, waiting,their eyes full of false pity and worry:don't talk to the girl with radioactive eyes,she might infect you.Best friends are there for the bad times.Take my hand and hold it tight,my freezing-cold fingers snapping and crackling.Tears streaming, shoulders shaking,face hidden in blood-stained sleevesto disguise the pain as a harmless sneeze.This isn't who I am,I cry.THIS ISN'T WHO I AM!!!Look at me!!!Look at ME,I scream,this is NOT who I am!!!Lots of people cope this way.It's normal,you say.But it's not:not for me...This isn't who I am.I used to be happy,now I'm ashamed to show who I really am.(This isn't who I am)Emotional breakdown 2.People staring, watching, whispering,their mouths spewing false pity and warnings:don't talk to the girl with radioactive eyes,don't let her skin brush yours...she might infect you.Take my heart in your hands,don't squeeze it too hard.
YouI want to write you.I want to scoop up all that you are: a lovely, bubbling, primitive, raw being,and lay you in the margins of my paper.I want to scrawl you with idiosyncrasies and lies and flaws;I want to weave you a beautiful tapestry of imperfections to choose from,because that is what makes characters come to life.I want to know every aspect of you.I want to know every lover's name and trace every scar,and I want to know your stories.I want to erase the beginnings and write only the ends,because you have forgotten to tell me who you are,and I want to know what happens next.I want to etch you into my mind, darling,so I will never forget these secrets you scream at mewith hands over ears and eyes filling with tears.I want to know why the sound of rain on metal roofsmakes you hide under the bed,and why you cannot say the name ___.Please, dear, let me write you.Use me as a diary - a journal - and scribble me with annotations.Fill me with your entity,
I and Tangled SpinesI am but a child.I dream of opening.I am pale-white and opalescent in shadows,Stretching out and up, arms reaching for treetopsAnd books on high-shelves and headboards.You come to me with tousled hair and bare feet,Spreading cold like tendrils of ivyAcross the floor and the walls and my bare back.You are a spider, spinning me into your web,And I love you enough to trust that I will survive the night.Hands cupping flesh, you extinguish the light.Our lips share promises beneath the blankets;The story of two people, tangling.The sky is high, stars glistening on the ceiling,And we become another constellation;Two stars pointing due south.You outshine me.A guitar plays in the backgroundAnd milk falls to the floor, seeping through floorboards.I tell you I am an artist, that I will write youOutside the margins in violent colors and you will be magnificent.You are dark red and dripping with rage,Words insinuating with acids that brand me:"
you are nothing but a chil
Love and PhilosophyIf I stared into your soul, I'd see love and philosophy,And mostly, most importantly: Deep, dark, chocolate-brown perception. You perceive more than you let on, I think;I can feel it in the way you gaze at me through the camera lens: You can stare into my soul,And see things that even I can't see.Others, They see musicality, laughter,And mostly, most importantly: Dog-eared, worn-down, loose-leaf literature in my pupils. But you, you see more of me.You see my insecurities about the words I utter, The way my eyes flicker down becauseI'm afraid someone will look too closely.[The way I bite my lip and blush and w i s h]You see inferiority, And indecision,But mostly, most importantly: You see me (simply).Thank you.
Sincerely, Your InsanityDear to whom it may concernI'm writing because you never learnThe shadows do have tales to tellYou'll hear them if you listen wellOutside your window do they creepInside they wander while you sleepIn whispered voices do they tellThe story of how the angels fellAnd how you may be one of them tooThat's how you know what they never doHeed my warnings and you'll be safeWhen the dark is something you can't escapeNow never forget what I have saidSincerely, the voice inside your head