i see your shadow in my nightmares.

staggering through allies as though intoxicated by the surrounding air and the intensity of the temperature. a shadow. an outline. the manisfestation of your presence in my life becoming a ghost; a piece of the past and bitter portion of self history. and i call to it, reaching outward to touch you with my fingertips and feel for a moment that you are real despite your shades of black and white and lifelessness. you turn, looking to me with eyes i'm sure no one else could see, and disappear. with out reason, with out cause, and with a look that says it's not what you want but it's all you know how to do - you disappear and i am alone in the ally. the intensely cold ally with intoxicating air.

i am with out voice; sound. i am with out color; life. i am with out breath and creativity and power and the ability to wake as a human rather than a robot with a schedule. i am a space holder, waiting for someone who would know better what to do with this potential i do not wish to utilize. a thrown away apple core; a ditch you avoid on walks and aimless drives. i am the broken swing children see no use for and the pebble that you threw with no direction. i am a rut. i am a rut. i am a rut. i am a broken record. i am going no where. i am going no where as fast as i've ever seen anyone go. i have no brakes. i have no way to stop this.

farewell fair weather (friends).

break every bone in my body, i do not care to move from here unless it's a forever kind of gone.

callused hands.

play the role of my alarm clock, wake me up and sew my eyelids shut - i'm sick of the downpour that comes with heaving shoulders and a sunken chest. my eyes are hollowed in shades of gray and my exhaustion feels comfortable; it's the warmth in this room that seems so foreign.

you are so far.
you are so far.
whendidyoumakeitsofaraway?

i'd pay to be bundled and thrown in to the ocean. this is what i get for falling in love with a dreamer; an optimist.

fever dream (let me out).

A body on the pavement. Everything he could have been is outlined in chalk, multicolors for the multidimensional failure; the brightest he's ever looked is glorified in the loss of control over bowel movements and the emptying of blood from his facial pigmentation. Tears fall down the face of a woman that waited too long to be a mother, and another who took too long to set him loose when she fell out of love. Being constrained by the hopes of what other people had for him was the focal point of his life, providing a place to pinpoint his troubles when he lost sight of a language that had always failed him - his own opinion. The air was crisp and leaves were every color that he'd hated the most, and it seemed almost fitting to the few that had taken the time to know him that he died after listening to a symphony of his own regrets; beating himself up in the open street until a car could come along and help. It seemed fitting, of course, that he'd hate everything about the people and weather surrounding his death.

Despite the autumn state of mind, not a single leaf fell for him. There were no beautiful sounds from birds in mourning, nor baskets of materialistic condolences on his family's front porch in the coming week. Life went on as usual, and people moved on as expected. His name was soon nothing more than a whisper in the wind, straying across the cheeks of almost loved ones when he wanted to check on them. As always, he was still easier brushed aside than dealt with or acknowledged. A body on the pavement.

sick of writing letters to a boy who burnt his mailbox.

Tracing the bottom of an empty glass with her finger, she wondered where along the line she lost her taste for schnapps and acquired a craving for Pomegranate Lemonade. It couldn't have been the overwhelming sweetness or the fact that her teeth literally ached after downing a glass, but perhaps the fact that twitching from the taste allowed her some kind of escape from feeling numb and looking lost. Tilting her head to look at her reflection in the countertop, she wondered where she lost her knack for conversation and mastered the art of analyzing her thoughts in the form of self-conversing. It was the worst possible dialogue, when the audience was an empty bar stool.

furrowing my brow, i trace my fingertips along the banister of a stairwell that should have long since rotted due to the lack of proper care. i have to talk myself out of comparing it to my heart and shake the weary thoughts of what's so different? as i take my seat at the bottom step. i pretend that i'm waiting for someone. when it no longer seems fun, i pretend that someone is waiting for me. my elbows lean on my knees and i tuck my chin in to my palm, noting that i pretend an awful lot of things and wondering which are realistic and which are fantasies i am not suited to experience. and i wonder who is, and what makes them so. the story of my life is merely a reel in my mind that i will never live out, and wouldn't know how to handle if i could.

waiting up for already casted shadows.

17 years down the drain and all i've learned are the do's and don'ts of what may or may not work if you play the hand you're unfairly dealt right. right from wrong are etched in to my mind from being scrawled across chalkboards and all i've found that i'm good at are the gray areas left for perception by passerby. i'd like to be a passerby who gets to walk away from this when the clock strikes midnight. i'd like to be a lot of things but this chalkline on a sidewalk certainly isn't one of them.