Landing on floating island of the gods

Landing on floating island of the gods without invitation, form of deafness exemplified by reckless flying. Long lost loves caught in the tempest, as my wings clipped back in an unnatural manner. This twist of fate and foreign weather has left me without my feathers. Am I a chicken ready to be roasted? Surprise, surprise, because I glance into the ethereal waters. Surprise, surprise, because here I am staring into the silvery liquid. Too deaf to speak my own words, I open the mouth inside my head. It says: “Daaamn! Who needs feathers anyway? I look like some serious gourmet shit.” 

Something I'm working on... Feel free to give feedback! (please do..!)

What started as him stooping to kiss my face in the marigold field turned into my arms clinging to his neck under the willow tree, and then into our limbs entangling as we sunk into the welcoming ground beside Lake Grok. We never once considered taking a step forward or back, because we didn’t have to, our bodies did that for us. Running his fingers through my hair, he stretched his fingers out across the back of my neck. This allowed him to hold me in place as my body pulsated against his. We were in a gold room, we were in the lake, we were under the moon. The sky was once a cobalt blue, now painted with strokes of purple. 

Letter

My homework for my Fiction Writing class was to write my professor a letter introducing myself...

Rachel, 

            My name is Cassandra. Most people pronounce it a different way than I do, so I try to understand when I’m called the wrong name. Almost everyone outside of the professional world calls me Cassie, which I find to be lightweight and reflecting of my playful nature. However, as a writer, I prefer Cassandra. I even use the pen name Cassandra Fox (Fox is my grandmother’s maiden name and the fox is my spirit animal). 

            I’m hunched in the dark, losing my mind to the painstakingly mournful music that permeates my room. My purple and yellow socks usually stand full mast at my calves, but have fallen into wrinkled heaps at my ankles. This is me. This is me surrendering to my midnight illness, the plague of this young fox’s mind. Reaching down to grab my bright pink and orange flower cup, I take a long gulp of something other than water. Foxes are known for being cunning, and I have begun to believe that their ability to achieve through deceit is based upon their complete awareness of the world.  

           Sometimes I stare wide-eyed at the world and wonder if it is my awareness that makes me so vulnerable to my mind when I am alone in the inky depths of darkness. 

            The cunning fox will never allow you to know how she feels, so she will hide her vulnerabilities at all costs. However, her awareness of the world means that she is also aware of herself and, because of this, she is aware that hiding her wounds will only make them hurt more. She must first allow them to heal in the forest a breeze. As every fox knows, you can trust no one but yourself. She finds her breath of relief in writing, because she is opening up to a different world, one where open wounds in the forest are not her downfall. Once she worried who might come across the words she so carefully chewed, but the fox realized that with words, all things are possible. 

             With words, the cunning fox stands in a bipedal manner, her two long legs stretching for miles beneath her strong torso. This is her mask. The fox grows from forest floor to busy street, stopping only to run her fingers through her long hair. The red hair and green eyes are all that are left of her past life, but now the cunning fox is free to achieve her desires through deceit. Now she can be vulnerable, because she is being someone else. In the shadows she writes out her worries and pains, waiting till the morning when the sun will shine again. 

            As a fox, she is more than capable of surviving on her own in the wild, but as a human being, there is nothing that hurts her more than being alone with her thoughts at night. And so she writes. 

 Cassandra

I just can't.

I'm trying to take deep breaths but I'm shaking and I'm shaking and I just can't (breathe?). Outstretched hands in front of me, quivering. This is why I hate my name and the price that comes with it. The curse of knowing the future and not being able to stop the cracks in the pavement. Have I ever told you about this? No, of course not. I seem crazy. Hand shaking, skittering. Crazy. My breath shudders because what else is there to do. I am stuck in a loop, taking the first bite of an apple over and over again but never the last licking of lips. Never the satisfaction. It's a sore feeling I get in my kneecaps every time, the memory of sprinting until they knock together and my whole body folding in half. I am nothing more than fabric in the wind, the catching of the sunlight in what is left of your broken glass. There is the cut from the glass from the dream I once had, and you lay among it all, sweet syruped lies dripping from your lips. How many times did you tell me it would all be okay? Could you stop time to stop the itching in my bones? Can we keep the glass from dropping? Because no one should be crying over spilled milk, but here I am ripping my guts out of my stomach to show them to an anonymous source. And I'm pretty sure this nightmare is the worst of all, shadowy hands reaching away from my body, to grab what I can only hope is mine. Something other than my intestines, a noose wrapped softly along my neck taking place of the fingerprints and kisses you once left. You're gone. I've shot up, eclipses instead of eyes, and there are the withered tears again. It's not spilled milk I'm crying over, it's not. I just can't bring myself to breathe, so instead I heave, and cough up the glass I choked down. There is a whisper wrapping around my soul, and I'm praying it crushes me before my vision becomes whole. Maybe I should have gouged my eyes out before the feeling of my heart pounding against my chest stopped me in my tracks. Here I am frozen, watching the same moment over and over again. The pure white snow covering up the pain that your tracks made. The tracks being made again, and the snowflakes falling again, and the dancing and the same moment over and over again. I don't want to watch you leave, but there are your tracks walking away from me. And there is the snow. I don't want you to go.

What Am I Afraid Of?

I'm afraid of you. I'm terrified of letting you in because (what if) you don't like who i am (inside). and this is when my heart starts racing, stops beating, the in between. me fearing you and this relationship. because what if i want something else, someone else (nothing lasts forever) and sometimes we need a (change) new day or place. but then i really like (you) and this and us and (you) just make me so happy i think (you) may just make me (glow) brighter. but really i'm just petrified by this idea, the idea, (idea of) ending up like my parents. because they have hurt me in more ways than i can illustrate with the flick of my tongue and (sting of) my words. and i don't want to do that, i don't want to do that to anyone else. i don't want to be that kind of (monster) that tears apart its children's lives. i want my kids to be happy (like you make me). and i know this is the future (and the future is forever away) but the future is now and i think a hella lot and sometimes (i can't help but wonder) sometimes i get caught up in my thoughts but it's because i want so many big things and (i want to make big things) i want to be a part of something big. and you make me feel like that's possible. is it possible. (possibly). and that (hope), you as the flicker of light in this darkened state of unconscious that i feel (i'm stuck watching the world pass me by, but i want to be a part of it), that i've always felt having watched my parents. i don't want to (feel) alone anymore!
i want you to open my eyes and sometimes i think you already have begun to and it scares me because you give me so much hope but what happens when you're gone? nothing lasts forever. but some things last long enough to leave their mark on the world. i want to be a part of something big, something that leaves a mark, i want to be a part of the world (with you).

This is why I hate people like you. You whose eyes are closed to the world of the words I'm trying to speak and the way I'm trying to paint the sky. You are choking me with your pudgy hands and chubby face. I want to scream. I want to tear out my hair and let out a bellow, to have the fire escape my throat, to burn the bridge between us because I cannot stand you. I want to punch, to create a home of purples and yellows, of the sky's complimentary colors upon your face because you don't understand how rude you are. I feel completely alone and I want to make you pay. I'm out for revenge.

Degausser

de·gauss [dee-gous]— vb

1. to neutralize the magnetic field of a ship's hull (as a protection against magnetic mines) using equipment producing an opposing magnetic field

2. another word for demagnetize

de·gauss·er [dee-gou-ser] —n

1. something that degausses.

“God, I’ve missed the chronic taste, of cheap gin upon your lips; entwined with mine, like cauterized skin,” she gnawed her words, watching him tremble as they lingered. Her body convulsed, slithering into a state of ecstasy, as she was finally able to indulge in her addiction. Only at 38,000 feet could she dig her talons into the haunting cavort that allowed her soul to slip away into the present; her cold hands grasping at life, aching to have a pulse. It was during the scattered, shuddering breaths like his that she discovered herself a vampire, sinking teeth into her prey. Only, she knew she could create destruction far better than any myth, as though there was an individual tempest brimming in each of her fingertips. She could feel his body clenching as she watched the pupils in his muddied blue eyes shrink as he gaped at her. “Is this supposed to be her hell or mine?” he asked himself.

Despite his inner cry for help: the roiling of his murky moons, back and forth; the studying her face, praying that she would take pity on him... He was completely mute, unable to get down on his knees and beg. Something about her had a hint of dreadful familiarity, one that caused him to feel an uncomfortable aching in his bones. There was a searing echo of her words, words that his memory had no recollection of but his body responded to, cringing. Her voice was as harsh as the grinding of teeth, like the primitive sound of fingernails scraping a chalkboard, “I love you so much, but do me a favor, baby. Don’t reply.”

She didn’t have to cackle to make him cower, instead fixing her shrewd, soulless eyes upon him as she considered the sadistic possibilities. Her hollow-cheeked, gaunt neck dangled closer to his and he felt her breath tickle his face. Naturally, his body reacted as a flower blossoming at her touch, his lips pursing at the inhalation of her sickly-sweet, syruped perfume.  She was a putrid bouquet of poppies rife with the musk hint of decay. His eyelids fluttered shut. Determined to abscond from her allure he forced them back open. Much to her inhuman pleasure, she knew he was no degausser. Her grey fingers snatched his collar and she brought his face to meet hers, locking lips with him again. This time he felt her underneath his skin. This time he gave in.

Unveiling the enigma he had exerted himself to conceal, his thoughts spoke for him, a new mantra: “I’ll let the bad parts in, I’ll let the bad parts in, I’ll let the bad parts in.” Now that she had his attention, she turned frigid; her pale eyes fell upon him and froze his heart with her wretched gaze. He was paralyzed; she spoke.

“I could be anyone. The silent wind grazing your arms and sending shivers down your back, the sound of your pulsating heart throbbing, echoing inside your head. I could be anything. I could be envious... So I am. Every time I stand up no one looks my way. Am I a soulless body, dragging itself through the day? I delicately place my tongue between my teeth and bite. Hard. What does it feel like to be real? I watch you slouch in your seat, the small opening of your lips. You are the predictable book that I flip through, hardly bothering to even glance over the pictures. But I? I am the book that's never even left the shelf. Do you enjoy watching me collect dust? I swallow, the sound of your footsteps echo through the hollow hallways, passing through me as though I am dissolving into the sky.

‘Who are you?’ Your voice tries to coo calmly, but I can hear the desperation clinging in your throat. You're trying to claw your way out of this darkness, but do you really want to see the light? I told you that I could be anyone; I've laid out my whole being for you and am now waiting, waiting for you to see what you've always seen, but a second time. And when I give you an answer, don't be afraid to meet me halfway, you are so close to escaping the poison of your own mind.

I can hear your heavy breath and I know the truth. I would tell you not to bother with the reverberation of your words, but, ‘Who are-who are you?’ they double over themselves too immediately to be heard distinctly. Do you feel me now? I could scratch open your chest, watch you heave as your secrets pour out, an unending tale of surreptitious sin. And you, oh you, you thought you would win.

Have you ever come across a serpent devouring its own tail? I can tell you desire to make something of yourself. But what are you willing to risk, would you eat your own tail for the chance of eternal life? Stop wringing your wrists and listen to me, listen to the world, as you know you never have before.

You have no feelings in your brain, it is all embodied. So why try to transcend that body? To overcome your own creation. The king must die, but there are consequences with the slicing of veins and the way your eyes widen to try and take in the world.”

Perspiration dripping down his face he awoke with a scream, terrified of the dream that burdens him every time he flies. “Are you okay, sir? Is there anything I can get for you?” the slender stewardess looked at him with wide eyes. He immediately felt his heart pulsate and some of the blood return to his dead face for he could not believe the sight of life. “Finally, eyes with spirit and warmth,“ he thought, letting out all the air that had built up in his chest, only then realizing that he had been holding his breath. “No,” he spoke softly as he turned down the empathy he so dearly craved, “I’m fine, thank you.”

For the first time, he paused to take in his surroundings and felt relieved to have sat in first class, where he did not disturb as many people. He pulled up the blind, brought his chair upright, and excused himself to the bathroom. He was surprised to come face to face with a raw-boned, sallow monster. A sweaty mess looked at him with two muddy oceans of panicked eyes for a long moment before he realized that it was only the mirror, a reflection of his disheveled self. “It was only a dream, it was only a dream, it was only a dream,” he spoke his mantra in a stern voice and splashed frigid water onto his solemn face. He was alive.

“Could I please get a gin and tonic?” he asked the stewardess with a grin as he settled down into his seat. He leaned back and sank into the safety of his chair, once again allowing his eyes to scan the room he had awoken in. They stopped, his eyes having fell upon the face of another passenger, a woman he had not noticed previously. She looked as though she had just gone for a run, heaving, gasping for any air she could get into her lungs. Feeling his leer, she twisted around, allowing him to see her alarmed eyes. He recognized them, the eyes. Although they were brown, the eyes fostered the same anxiety he had seen moments ago, in the mirror.

A jingle danced through the air and reached his ears, the same haunting voice he’d heard in his dream, “I’d die for you one time, but never again.”

the girl that lay in another world

taken by the ever lovely Sarah Robinson

Sometimes I want to slip through my chair, through the floor which becomes the ceiling, through the grass and dirt and homes of the deceased, decomposed. Sometimes I want to slip through the caverns of inky water to the center of the earth so my body can float on a new sea: of lava, of molten rock, because maybe then my pulse will catch up with the breath in my mouth. Maybe then I will open my eyes and find myself awake. I am two delicate feet, cloudlike, drifting through this world as a dream. I am trapped in my own dream, terrified to reach out and actually touch the world. I hear tales of the shivers a soft breeze will give you, the touch of someone's fingers tiptoeing across your skin. I hear myths but I still have yet to witness them. Am I just a body? What with no mind, no heart to feel. I know that when lips collide against mine it is called a "kiss," though I have never felt the scattered words pass between our mouths. I know that when you look at me with the fire in your eyes you might call it "lust," but the only fire I've felt was in that the dark of the depth of the earth that I've clawed my way to reach. This is my attempt at running away, my soul and body dividing where there is no divine and in this new world I can be godly. With shaking hands I steady my stoic face and grab handfuls of dandelions, wishes scattering among a breeze that I only know is there because I can see the seeds falling out of my grasp. I have created for myself a sanctuary of saturated colors among the veins of the earth. I am waiting in vain.

tension

the split second in between heart beats when I am unable to hold your gaze and my eyes drop, biting my lip I slowly bring my eyes back up to you before again looking away. Your heart wrenching blue eyes are moments before mine, and I crave nothing more than to break the silence by pulling your face to mine and stooping to breathe in your breath. I imagine you taste like weed and toothpaste, a combination that only makes my head spin when it's coming from you. When you trace maps on my skin, my whole body shivers, I have goosebumps down to my bare bones. Somehow the way your arm drapes over my body and pulls me in tight makes me feel at home, the comforter engulfing us like a warm sea, with you I'm safe. With my head on your chest I can hear the loud thump and I wonder if the erratic beat is because you're nervous too, are you nervous too? In between beats I look up into your eyes for the smallest moment. If only I could find it in me to kiss you.

I feel alone, so dreary and alone, and I hate sleep, and I miss you. I hate falling asleep alone, to my own heart beat. I wish you were here again, you arm draped around me and I could feel your heart beating against me. It made me feel safe and happy. But when I am alone in the darkness, every fear creeps under my skin. I become the forgotten, the caged. I become a woman of sin and sadness. In the blackened sky I cannot seem to forgive myself, I only see the bad. I am the hated gestalt, and you should never bother to call my name. Because I slouch in the inky air and let the tears roll. It is not worth trying to pick me up, as I am only a piece of garbage. In the darkness. I hate sleep when I am alone with my thoughts because I know I am nothing. Not even a second thought. I would do anything to check your pulse but you're not here. I want to grab your hand. Where do you want to go? If I squeeze my glazzies shut tight enough, will I see you?
Will I open them to that marvelous blue and crooked smile and crows feet? Will I open them to you?

I miss your body nestled against mine. I miss your breath and your mind.

I could be anyone

I could be anyone. The silent wind grazing your arms and sending shivers down your back, the sound of your pulsating heart throbbing, echoing inside your head, the bright green pencil the person who sits next to you uses every day. I could be anything. I could be envious... So I am. Every time I stand up no one looks my way. Am I a soulless body, dragging its self through the day? I put my tongue between my teeth and bite. Hard. What does it feel like to be real? I watch you slouch in your seat, your eyes fluttering, open and closed. You are the predictable book that I flip through, hardly bothering to even glance over the pictures. But I. I am the book that's never even left the shelf. Do you enjoy watching me collect dust? I swallow, the sound of your footsteps echo through the hollow hallways, passing through me as though I am dissolving into the sky.
"Who are you?" Your voice tries to coo calmly, but I can hear the desperation clinging in your throat. You're trying to claw your way out of this darkness, but do you really want to see the light? I told you that I could be anyone, I've laid my whole being for you and am now waiting, waiting for you to see what you've always seen, but a second time. And when I give you an answer, don't be afraid to meet me halfway, you are so close to escaping the poison of your own mind.
I can hear your heavy breath and I know the truth. I would tell you not to bother with the reverberation your words, but, "Who are-who are you?" they double over themselves too immediately to be heard distinctly. Do you feel me now? I could scratch open your chest, watch you heave as your secrets pour out, an unending tale of clandestine sin. And you, oh you, you thought you would win.
Have you ever come across a serpent devouring its own tail? I can tell you desire to make something of yourself. But what are willing to risk, would you eat your own tail for the chance of eternal life? Stop wringing your wrists and listen to me, listen to the world as you know you never have before.

Saturday's a Quiet Riot

I am the breath you beg yourself to keep, the one you try to lock away behind your lips, a prison to hold my effervescent body, oh the way I move. I am the ghostly hue of purple and blue, the silky sheets made so fine they slither around your body as though they are a fluid. The rhythm of your heart beating, the slow crashing of waves, the opening and closing of doors. Sometimes you wonder where your mind went, a dragon getting lost in the smoky haze it created its self. Icy shivers sent trembling through your veins, my nails against your delicate skin. You are the flower blooming in slow motion and I the camera capturing the moment. I bite my lip slowly, as it does a little wave from under my teeth, finally releasing it. Your eyelids droop in a long instant, slowly getting heavier and approaching the ground, only to flutter back open. I watch as your head falls against the wall, your body seems to be swallowed by the bed you sink into, a shadow falling through the world. My hand reaches up, my fingers grazing my scalp and running through my hair, grasping at any remainder of sanity. I watch the muscles in your neck relax as you arch your back and stretch out, your mouth falling into a tiny oh. A deep breath and our bodies breathe as one, up down motion, the sea pushing and pulling at our backbones. I am the wind that steals your blood flow and turns it out onto the world, rivers and streams, ponds and marshes. One must feed the children of the world.

She lay in an over abundance of blankets, a tiny, warm center of her universe, the nucleus of her thoughts and dreams, this was what she had burrowed herself into. Rich purples and pinks, soft comforters and scattered pillows, she sunk so deeply into the bed she almost disappeared. But he did not disappear, no. He giggled in the back of her head and stayed imprinted on her heart. He was the peanut butter she kept tonguing, stuck at the roof of her mouth. He was the feeling that reached all the way to the tips of her body, the tingling she got in her elbows. He was the way the waves can never leave the sand, he pulled her strings the way the moon makes music with the sea. He had a specific smile and a way with words, the image of him with his glasses on would cause her head to wander off in a daze. He was the constant reason for her biting her bottom lip and clenching her muscles. All he has to do is ask and she will fling herself into his arms.
There was one night she forced her banner into the relentless earth and took a stand. She said "no... another time," pretending it was due to self respect, she hid the fact that she really just felt ugly and worthless. In that moment she knew what she was worth and it wasn't his time. To him, she was nothing more than a body to caress and a soul to entice. His gentle kisses were laced with something sickly, and the words that he whispered were always too sweet, syruped. She wanted to be worth more so she turned him down. Maybe if she did, maybe if she took control and made it clear she didn't want the moments they stole from the moon to be meaningless, maybe then he'd want her as more than just a body. Maybe then he'd want her as she wanted him. So that one night, she decided to postpone even the littlest kiss. (God, she missed the way he'd smirk when they pulled apart to take a breath and stare off into each others' eyes. He always knew what she was thinking, often before she even did.)

She never stopped regretting saying no to the boy she may have...

I hope the next girl that you kiss has something terrible contagious on her lips.

This is my double entendre. A way of saying I both love and hate you, my head is hot and clouded, a lone ship caught in your reckless tempest (or am I the eye of the storm?). I am the way you slowly shut your eyes right before you fall asleep. I like the stories that slither out of your lips, escaping your grip and enticing me, an albatross hung swift around my neck. Do you ever think that there could be something left? (between) (us). Fuck this and you. This is my way of saying that you're the worst thing that ever happened to me, the plague that struck me heart and brought me to my knees. I want to be the next girl to kiss you, for I have something terribly contagious on my lips. It was once the way I said your name, but it has since changed to a series of tethered necks trying to fight back screams about you. Oh the lashes and the ways I'd hurt you, if only I knew how. I want to be the next girl that you kiss, for I want you to like me, somehow.

Therein lay the fault of which I could not bring myself to say. My heart, it thumped like the rhythm of tears I left at bay. There you stood, just moments before the ground overtook the body I so badly longed to see. Swallowed by what was left of your words, the ones my lips pursed to hold back, I picked it up and flung it into the sea. A tiny flint, calloused and hard, with little bits that caught the light, like the high shining building I once met you on, those years ago. And with the wave of my arm, the picture of drowning, you sank beneath the muddied waves, an intoxicating tempest of inky indigo. Arms in the air, the thin line between waving and drowning, I estimated the seconds until impact, within moments my feet found themselves far above my head. My body stretched out, an acrobat lurching through the waves, greenish-blue skin, one might declare me dead. Hands relaxed and fingers elongated, any pebbles once held, now just tiny hearts sinking in a daze. I let my rock fall long before it left my fingers, for you were nothing but phase. 

Drowning, not waving.

(But I wanted you to think I was) leave you with a solid memory (of me). Waving, smiling, ecstatic. When really I'm (ataxic) drowning in my own fears and swallowed voice, my lack of ability to tell you (this is how I really feel). All I will ever be (to you) is waving. (No no no.) Drowning.

I let myself fall for a boy, and now I don't know what to do. Twice I fell asleep in his arms, two nights we snuggled together, two mornings I woke up to his blue eyes. His constant giggle and the fact that he kissed me everywhere. On the shoulders, on my forehead, on my lips and hips and cheeks. Now I just feel tired. Maybe I haven't slept well since I've slept alone. Some men die under the mountain just looking for gold, some die looking for a hand to hold. Is that what I'm looking for? I'm constantly distracted. Yes, I'm still sick and it's hard to focus when it hurts to breathe/swallow/cough/exist, but I'm distracted by something else too. A feeling in my gut. The causation of my corruption of goosebumps covering my skin. I close my eyes and feel cold and lonely and I can't help but want his presence, agin. Clearly, I am hopeless in all the wrong ways. All the ways you don't want to be if you don't want to get hurt. Maybe I need to build myself back up. Go back to the ignorance of mindless sex. The perfect prescription for my unwanted attachment to the boy I fell for. The way I fell for you. And to think of the words I wrote of you. Almost praising, somewhat cautious but mostly too busy being caught up in you. I like the way you breathe (with me). With me. The way you breathe with me. It was as though our breaths were tangled together as one, cold feet in between warm feet. Again, I am covered in goosebumps. And where are you?
And where are you?

God, I am so in your head, take me, take me, back to your bed. High and honey and sick again but figuring shit out. I probably will transfer, from the look of things. But for now I'm just fucking shit up and hoping for the best. Underneath the covers. I want someone to wear me out in all the best ways. Someone. Me. I want my long fingers grasping the air along with your voice. Can you feel me now? Feel me up and down. Feel the same as me. We are not alone. You will never be alone. I'm in your head.

Gossamer (edited sestina)

I edited my sestina and even gave it a title, "Gossamer". Feel free to comment with any thoughts on the changes and such...

“Gossamer”

A sudden, loss of her frozen, fractured breath A

glistening, as he hands her a rose-gold locket B

underneath the autumn's cool, crisp moon. C

She grows a spine D

and kisses his cheek, somehow managing not to choke E

on the excuse she makes up. F

She stands tall, perfectly powdered with make-up, F

her milky dress rippling behind her as she slaves away to keep her breath, A

saying those two simple words by swallowing the choke. E

And the deed is done, they've written it in the stars, locked it. B

Palms out and arms open, "there's no more need for a spine!" D

she cries, as she tosses it away, the only witness being the moon. C

A whisper from the moon C

as she makes up F

her spine D

he breathes a rigid breath A

rips the locket B

right off her throat, almost causing her to choke. E

Hands wrapped around her throat, he squeezes hard with intent to choke. E

In the light of the wolf's yellow moon C

he ties her up and hopes to lock it B

away for it always runs too soon. He makes up F

an excuse to excuse his heavy breath A

but instead only rips holes in her wispy spine D

She stands up straight, straight up and grows a spine. D

Her spine that shines and makes him choke E

on the way he taught himself to keep his breath. A

It doesn't work for he knows that the moon C

is on her side to help her make up F

the life she's losing as he tries to lock it. B

The judge said she had to give back the locket. B

She wanted to keep it, something in her spine D

told her that it was better than making up her face with make-up. F

Frigid. The judge's words made her choke E

and watching her as the judge spoke, the moon C

tried to give her back some breath. A

But the breath was tied to the locket. AB

And the moon couldn't stop the cobwebs from littering her spine. CD

He'd choke her till her eyes were dry of make-up. EF

ache

first glance. blonde hair. curly, messy, unruly. tired green eyes. exhausted, sometimes sad, weary. pursed lips. throat constantly swallowing. chin tilted down, gaze glued to the floor. arms hugging own body, stomach in a curl, breathing inconsistent. first glance, maybe shy. relatively normal.
second glance. bubbly, bouncing blonde hair. bright green eyes. beaming smile. boisterous laugh. arms hugging other people. second glance, loud and joyous. relatively normal.
what you don't see. me alone every night. wet eyes that get brighter with each tear drop. shaky hands, quivering heart. always a second thought. trying to reach out to others and never receiving a reply. me trying to take deep breaths to calm down. trying to trying to trying to think of something to do with myself.
me. alone. always. craving a hug or someone else's arms. but here i am closing my eyes as tight as possible, praying the tears don't come. sometimes i fool myself into thinking that people actually care. that i actually have friends. that every once and a while i do wander across someone's mind. but here i am. alone, alone, alone. always begging you to hang out and be my friend and you don't ever think of me. am i invisible? there's an ache in the center of my body, a darkness slowly spreading out, i am drifting away. i wish you cared, but i know you don't.



so instead of seeking your friendship, tonight i'll hide inside a book. also, fuck you.