fat flakes fall and scorch my
face with the promise of the
cold, and it awakens an age-old
thirst in me
but i can see what others do not
see in this terrible snow-scape
and i drink a disguise,
poison-white.
i am dry, and i drink,
although i die.
i was never one to heed
warnings. it's the danger in these
things that turns me on, although
i must pay. i always pay for
the mistakes i make, and this one
is no exception.
strychnine.
the shards of your fine
china cut me up inside.
it is a terrible thing to have
gone this way, without heeding
the caution tape, without heeding
the signs, but it could not have
been prevented.
my fault, my fault.
so this is how it must end,
a ruin, a blotch on this fine ground.
do not walk over me. even though i can't see
i can feel your every reprimand
as it continues to snow.
soon, i will be buried below and
hidden from sight. they will not
remember the girl who tried to fill
her thirst with some bad trick.
they will not remember the way i died.
Where is the fanfare?
Where are the streamers, where
is the champagne
to announce to the world,
I am here?
It has not been that much of a
celebration this year.
I tell myself it's because only the
important people care,
that it's garish to display one's age.
My hair may be gray, but I still have
the same fresh skin that I
had at eighteen,
although I smoke.
(Someday, the years will catch up to
me. The day I stop getting hit for
ID is the day I act my age.)
If I am so grand, then I have to be known
and it hurts that I am not so large to the world.
I may be deluded in my importance, but today
was supposed to be about my name,
and it wasn't, and so I am mad.
Standing in the bitter cold on the
corner of Gottingen Street, the transfer
truck caught my eye from
it's sheer size.
I looked inside.
The carcasses of cows, split
in half, filled the back.
It took two people each to
unload them. I saw their great
ribs, curved upward,
a tangle of hooves, and their
parched dry insides.
A butcher shop delivery,
highlight of my day.
I have never seen anything
quite like that before and
probably will never again
and I remember
that fresh, sharp smell
of meat.
I am one of the haunted here.
I walk down the hall with my
dead face on
and grasp at the sides of the walls.
It gives me something to hold on to.
This flatness eats away at me
until I am weak
in its wake.
Oh how the silence grows.
It really goes to show just how
desperate you would have to
be just to get here.
It is too quiet, and we all wear the same
dead look in our eyes.
And we don't acknowledge each other
as we walk by.
But I myself am the queen.
I am the one whom the elements call
with a shriek. See how I
twist the bare wires to form
a perfect heart.
It beats when it's placed in your hand.
They do not understand that
I am the one who appears by
your bed and in the mirror.
I am kept on the shelf
but I am here for something else,
and I grow as dead as the ones
I am near.
Royalty in a locked ward,
there is something in my eye.
Oh I am alive but I am
not pieced together quite right.
Something has to be done
or I'll never get out of this place.
I didn't commit any crime.
If it was you, what would you do?
I only took back what was mine.
I want you to tell me the truth,
if you were in the state I'm in
and got sent to the quiet room
you'd take it out upon your skin.
You'd try and swallow all the pills
or starve yourself til you were thin.
You can't see health when you are ill.
I know, I've been there. I have tried.
It didn't work. My only skill
is taking back what once was mine.
I didn't commit any crime.
Nine hours in a crisis room
will fuck a little with your head.
You know you won't be let out soon,
you start to wish that you were dead
and take back everything you said -
"What, kill myself? I've never tried
to hang myself in someone's shed."
I fall as quickly as I fly.
I was admitted. I was doomed
to repeat patterns cast in red.
I cannot take these shifts of mood,
I'd rather take the pain instead.
Admitted once they found a bed
and labeled "failed suicide",
it fills me with a kind of dread.
I fall as quickly as I fly.
Upon release, the trees had bloomed.
In the morning, I was fed
then discharged in the afternoon.
The only thing that I had left
was a sort of small regret
that in the end, I went and lied
and gave a different sobriquet.
I fall as quickly as I fly.
Bandages and tourniquets
are just one way I exorcise
the way I feel. I'm bound in thread.
I fall as quickly as I fly.
Things got bad inside my head.
I relapsed, so who gives a fuck?
I'm still alive. I am not dead
because I chose to make a cut
but just one cut is not enough.
I've gone too far, I've crossed the line.
My arms - the skin is coarse and rough.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.
This need in me, it must be fed.
I did not tell the ones I trust.
I chose to cut my arms instead,
I don't know why they make a fuss
when I need stitches just to shut
the depth of harm. It's not a crime
to take the pain, it's just self-love.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.
To speak of it fills me with dread.
It shows my caliber of luck
when I am pieced back up with thread
because my sharps were full of rust.
It fills me with a sort of lust
every single fucking time
I cut or bleed, when I throw up
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.
I didn't lie. I only said
I would not give up what was mine.
I'm only calm when I have bled.
I fake a smile and swear I'm fine.