two souls colliding.
do you feel it too?

i feel unclean.

you cling to me like sulphur, and no matter what i do to mask it i can't escape your stench.

like fog on a winter morning you envelop me, suffocate me, drown me.

i want to flush you away.

like an unwanted tattoo that's malevolent presence taunts my skin, i want to cut you out. 

you are not part of me any more, yet you cling to me.

no matter how many times i wash my hands, your blood never comes out. 

i want to fuck just to forget you. as if by being someone else's you will magically lose your place in my heart.

it's like you left.

but you never undid the handcuffs.

i don't want to be yours any more, and this is one prison from which i'm finding it hard to escape.

separated
two magnets, swinging, circling, repulsing, attracting,
wanting, needing, hurting
separated
by your vision
you unchanging, trying to move toward me
through the storm of my ever-changing emotions
to leave me
to loathe me
to ignore me
i will deal
but what do I do with this love?

i thought
how nice it would be to be here with you
and then I thought
how much better it is to be here
with someone who wants to be with me.

they'll say it's sad,
she killed herself at 24,
how tragic.

but im lucky.
i get to be part of the air
flowers will grow from parts of me
that burnt with apathy.
i will be the stars,
the dirt under your feet,
the bird in the sky.
you'll swim in my oceans,
and dance to my songs.

i'm not dead.
i'm born.

i wish i was you.

anyone.

i wish i could trade places.

i hate moaning about my life. but it's like you were given a royal flush and i have all the 2's. no matter how i play the hand i'm dealt i cannot win.

time to step away from the table.

eyes of ether, i stare back at you, with streaked charcoal tear marks down the pinkest of cheeks. 

i look like decay. 

scars on my arms fade like diamonds embedded in sand, moments of clarity sinking back into sagging puddles of disregard.

externally i'm placid, inside i burn. 

i'm disfigured, a cripple of my own self hatred.

i want the lights to go out.

i want to take all the pills. feel my kidneys ache with analgesia. nausea in my belly. before i lie down with you in my mind and take my final sleep. 

i hope to dream. 

i hope to hope.

please wake me up from this nightmare. 

ah, if only words could scream. 

Meet an empty space,
it wasn’t empty in the beginning,
but it is burned for so long,
that its contents
have long been extinguished.
All that are left are the scars
from the burning
with the odd flick of fire
from time to time
to make sure the contents can’t grow again…

Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.

I don’t know whether you’re young or not. I sort of hope you’re young and sad. If you’re old and happy, I can imagine that you’ll maybe smile to yourself when you hear me going, He broke my heart. You’ll remember listening to music and eating chocolates in your room, or walking along the Embankment on your own, wrapped up in a winter coat and feeling lonely and brave. But can you remember how with every mouthful of food it felt like you were biting into your own stomach? Can you remember the taste of red wine as it came back up and into the toilet bowl? Can you remember dreaming every night that you were still together, that he was talking to you gently and touching you, so that every morning when you woke up you had to go through it all over again? Can you remember carving his initials in your arm with a kitchen knife? Can you remember standing too close to the edge of train platform? No? Well, fucking shut up, then. Stick your smile up your saggy old arse.

That which I have dreamed is always very far from that which I am able to hold fast and write down on paper. An artist seems to me to be a man who looks at beauty through a pair of glasses which, as he breathes, becomes clouded over and veils the beauty he sees. He takes his handkerchief. He cleans his glasses. He sees clearly again. But at the first breath the absolute beauty disappears. It is only the veil, the approximation, that we can perceive.

please don’t let me stop thinking and start blindly frightenedly accepting! I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain, and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out..

I suppose being raped and left for dead will add a sobering though to any 4-years old's life. But I am certain that even before that memorable incident I could never really suppress bleak thoughts, especially the most inopportune ones, a habit that has persisted. For instance: called upon to view a friend’s newborn baby, the precious bundle from which protrude adorable bits of infant anatomy, I always find myself wondering (even as my voice supplies the requisite pleasantries) whether it will grow up to be force-fed human excrement and drowned in a barracks latrine, as uncounted Russian Jews were in the Second World War. Or else is it destined to die of a drug overdose at seventeen, choke to death in a restaurant in its thirties, or fall victim to a hit-and-run driver while walking the dog? In short, there is nothing like the sight of a new life to make me wonder how it will end. This must be one of those yardsticks of a person’s basic character, like the one that supposedly distinguishes optimists from pessimists (is the glass half full or half empty?). Is this baby alive or merely laggard in its dying? It does add a dimension of pity to what is otherwise a flat and goofy spectacle of inapprehensive love. And I am powerless to stop it.

Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.

I’m leaving.

You didn’t make me suffer
so you needn’t expect
my hatred.
That would be too splendid
and important a gift.
You’re not worth anything
as precious
as a shred of living flesh.

I’ve killed
your presence within me,
easily.

I’m cleansed.
I’m dancing a festive dance of murder. 

Let’s face it, I am in danger of wanting my personal absolute to be a demigod of a man, and as there aren’t many around, I often unconsciously manufacture my own. And then, I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.

isn't it great to find that you're really worth nothing?

*peeing now*

just for you dro! xD

Life is like a box of chocolates. It’s a cheap thoughtless perfunctory gift that nobody ever asks for. Unreturnable because all you ever get back is another box of chocolates, so you’re stuck with unidentifiable whipped mint crap that you mindlessly wolf down when there’s nothing left to eat. Sure, once in a while there’s a peanut butter cup or an English toffee, but they’re gone too fast and the taste is fleeting. So you end up with nothing but broken bits with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts. If you’re desperate enough to eat that, all you have left is an empty box filled with useless brown paper wrappings.

Life.

Life was a fever-dream made up of joys embittered by sorrows, pleasure poisoned by pain; a dream that was a nightmare-confusion of spasmodic and fleeting delights, ecstasies, exultations, happinesses, interspersed with long-drawn miseries, griefs, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats, humiliations, and despairs—the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity…