Sunday, January 30, 2011

Friday, January 28, 2011

Jane Doe and the Hardcore Lows

All these mirrors

--hallucinations--

catch me every time I pass

and rigid, boney, lonely arms

are all that hold my shaking hands


Tired eyes proclaim it's time to eat

something, please

but the message doesn't reach my feet

and my stomach seems to think it's fine,

though I suspect it may be lying...

As for affection

I've only felt Depression's kiss

But I'm sure that last week I was bigger than this

Is shape a thing that one should miss?

I ponder these things as I live off of water.


Torn up jeans are hanging off

my body, like shedding skin

I want to sin with you

but I'm broken

and so thinly stretched


I'm damaged and wretch'd,

and you haven't spoken

You don't want me

for too many reasons

I promise one day I'll get over this,

'til that day comes I'll try to pretend.


Wasting away as the lows get lower

and feelings sink deep,

while I still can't sleep

and my dreams rape my mind

over and over

But the highs--

they're like fire...

and they burn out as fast


The good doesn't last.


Stuck on the RX, roller-coasting

XS tank-tops slouch off my bones

Hold the phone,

my clothing's growing

Song and dance

but no one's home


Two hipbones sit navy

from leaning, supporting

Banged and bruised,

sprained and contused


But "It's a beautiful day,"

he says,

and I believe him

So I'll open my eyes up wide again

in an attempt to take some beauty in

and try to mood-swing back to shelter,

where the skies are blue

and the storm sits quiet

for another hour or two


And he wasn't lying

when he said it was beautiful

Don't let me waste away.


It's a beautiful day.


windowpanes freezing

i look like death,

it's nesting in my eyes

pale fingers clasp cool collar bones

there is no warmth left in me


enmities i've not yet found

wait outside my doorway, creeping.

the flip of a card will outline them

but I wouldn't know their names


frailty, insignificance

tightens aching joints

and a sleep so close to death

comes now to consume me


waiting, waiting

chilling whispers on the wind

tell me it's not enough

and the coldness takes me in

Point Blank Scissor-Games

capricious behaviour with neurotic flare;

if my body's off limits, i'll cut off my hair.