a moment as slow & thick as honey when I realised your voice was too tender and sweet to be singing out such pain
it wasn't yours
you just helped carry it

the little pressures on the side of the head, pressing inwards and inwards and inwards, waiting for
(you are not going to tell me who to be.
  I am going to tell you who I am.)

Didn't Rapunzel escape her tower?
    Didn't she strangle the shadows with her hair?

She says to him, "This is boring."
He doesn't look up from where he's reading a tech magazine. "What's boring?"
"This. Expectations. All this bullshit. It's boring."
"Hm." Non-commital. He turns a page. His face always seems curiously and clearly beautiful when he's concentrating on something, like a crystal with a ray of white sunlight beaming through it. Her mouth burns, her fingers itch. She's suddenly furious.
"I'm just a cog in their machine! I have to follow their rules!" She stands up, quivering with indignant anger. "I hate it!"
He looks up from his magazine, then, half-amused at the dramatics, half-alarmed. "Who says you have to?"
"Who says you have to be a cog in their machine?" His eyes glint, attractive, dangerous, powerful. "Make your own machine."
"Without cogs," she blurts out.
He smiles, touches her tangled hair. "Run it on sheer crazy."
She grins.

I wonder if a heart can break so hard that it takes its owner out with it.

purple horizon haze
jacaranda fever
off to war we go again

"How to write poetry? Darling, that's easy.
First, you have to fall in love."

tip-toeing around the circumference of the moon
with my throat cut and eyes pinned shut
the birdcage of my heart empty

A part of me will always be yours, because you got there first.
You sang in my heart, first.

you are
the cynosure
of all hearts
in my heart.

Sometimes you wish you were dead, and then you close your eyes, and then you just are.
Time stops us all; how do you stop time?
Reach out, hands around a ghostly incorporeal throat, like trying to cradle a cloud. Squeeze.
Killing time.

you keep asking
it's because I


I am so sorry
that things now cannot be for
you, love, as they were.
or even as they should be.

and so we see the jacaranda-eyed girl
self-censoring once again
{old paranoias die hard
without a vengeance}

I can't get over what you did, because when I undress my soul and run my fingers over my naked spirit, searching for truth and punishing any vanity, I touch the wound you left there.
It hasn't scarred. Because hasn't even healed completely, yet. Touch it gently, or sometimes it begins to weep and seethe again. I loved, perhaps still love, the ghost of who you were -- and that's the only thing that keeps me from plunging my fingertips, dirty and seeking, into the depth of the wound, tearing hurting infecting.
You said you loved me, but you swallowed it all back and told me that I wasn't good enough. I wasn't a star in your skies anymore; you'd given your stargazing up for basking in the blue sky's sun. You can't even see me, any more.
Oh baby, the sun is overrated.

to new beginnings,
and building worlds you dreamed of a lifetime ago.
{don't be afraid.
just shine on in the technosparkle...}
running wild into the woods,
into the next world
{I will leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs for those who would follow}

Trip, fall, stumble. Time turns to mercury when you're falling. Hands reaching out, body twisting minutely, snap-judgements -- how accurate? -- when you're heading towards the pavement. How to slow the fall. How to turn the body to save yourself from the pain.
Sometimes, you fall on all fours. Hands, knees. Bang, bang. Bruises like sickened flowers blossoming beneath a sky of skin.
Wear them with pride. Only those with blood in their veins can bruise.

four, oh four.
we are the silent acolytes of Lain,
forced blank selfless in what they did to our Wired.
{this is a sad, twisted universe.
    [[RESET ALL]]
        .ƚxɘn ɘʜƚ nɘqO}

I am Persephone; and with September's dawn,
    I put away my fangs.
I prophesy to you,
    {still, still, ihre wilde Herz}
in September, we rise.

"Cat's in the cradle." She tilts her head, fixens glistening alive-dark eyes on those that belong to her twin, similar but not the same.
"Sis?" He trails a hand down her face gently, willing her to come out of the muddled firesmoke clouds of her mind, to talk to him, to -- if not be completely lucid -- at least walk beside it.
"I never correct anyone," she blurts out in response -- of some sort. Her eyes widen, he can see the whites clear around her irises, her pupils contract and expand like a beating heart. "I can't bear it. I can't bear them being wrong. I can't STAND it--"
Her breathing is erratic, her grip around her brother's wrists tightens. "I thought everything would be okay. From now on."
His heart cracks, a hairline fracture moving with the speed of lightning across its surface, delicate and painful. "So did I, little sister."
For whatever reason, this seems to calm her. She sighs a little and leans back against the pillows her brother has propped her up against.
"Always be stopped in time. Always be mad. But...but there is solace. I feel. I see." Suddenly a beautiful, peaceful smile ripples across her face like the play of light on water. "I see for us. Now I know why I'm alive. This is why. Why I...when the dark presses in I can...I'm...it's good."
She's exhausted, but she turns gives her smile to her brother.
"World's mad. But the water flows. It's good. My family. It's good."

"I love you."
I need it to be larger. Wider. I need something bigger than love. Something that fits the universe that you carved inside my heart and the life you breathed into me.

She was poisoned twice, both times she was punished for vomiting, and you wonder why she stays so very quiet while her poetry is screamed into the sky? The truth will out. Perhaps nobody will ever know where the poisoners are, but they will squirm in their fragile lairs all the same. The pattern repeats, the supposed chrysalis never breaks.

Allow me a little dream of you, a dream of soft laughter and hands entwining, of creating together -- words, music, beauty -- of secrets shared and whispered over late-evening vodka, of listening to mp3s of nostalgia and beauty, of sunshine-hearted fangirling and the joy of adoration, of dreams so enduring they may well be eternal in the strange changelingness of the world that was suddenly constructed around us, when we weren't looking. Allow me a dream of you, like a sunbeam through a drop of cherry-stained glass. We can allow ourselves love letters for the simple beauty of it, can't we?

Secrets. Whispers. Mazes. Enigmas. The truth doesn't get handed to anybody on a silver platter. Most of the time, it's because it doesn't even matter. Love me, love my secrets, or don't love me at all.

Every choice she makes is the wrong one, one she isn't supposed to make, one that may inconvenience someone else. Every word she writes is both true and untrue. Every little rearrangement of items creates a new world, a new reason to stay alive. Every moment that ticks past is another moment surrounded and suffocated by a fate she never chose, but what's the alternative?
There are dead daisy petals on the front doorstep. The neighbours are indulging in their usual cacophony. One solitary black cat catches the eye of the girl at the window. Heroin is a drug that lets you be content with the present, no matter how awful it is. Hope is a worse one that makes you believe in tomorrows and maybes.