Clack clack clack;
She marched like a renegade,
Parting her lips with
a promiscuous smack.
denim sleeves upright,
Signs in the air;
Afraid of men and allowed
To speak highly of feminism -
Somehow.

She rallied her army
To prepare for attack:
No wallflowers, all pretty,
But they do not 
matter. They never did.
She was a queen of
roses, cut off their petals.
I was a sunflower but
I liked her nastiness.

Red lipstick and the cruel
slam of brunette curls,
I saw an insecure shadow
painted in crimson
perusing closely behind.
As our eyes passed,
the red lipstick smudged;
became tainted like it
had all just been a vision.
Somehow.

New ideas, writing lists,
inspired by the night.
The stillness of it all in
beautifully dimmed lights.
Sparked loving affections,
fists grabbing my pillow
in silent excite at the kisses.
Soft breathing, romantic words.
Thoughts of reckless outings,
too afraid to do real bad stuff.
More uncontrollable laughter
at silly stories, muffled cries.
Sneaking downstairs for drinks,
hands connected to the wall.
Sitting on the cold floor,
numb but content.

This is a letter to myself
about someone else.
Her soul is a part of mine,
those strange moments
when her presence
shines in me
like a chiming bell.
Such a calming parallel;
both a hoping poet.

I don't like to know that
she was this afraid.
Dancing in the night,
a hundred treds,
more weight to shed.
Anyone can be angelical
but still gauntly dead
and I'm slightly dead
but if I go, what do I have
to leave behind?

I asked if she wanted to
hang out some time
and in my distress
I was a baby again.
She kept holding me.
But my sadness didn't fall asleep,
my bones became ...
too weak to leave.
Angelic women don't eat
so why should I?

We are prone to
upholding an image -
it makes me sick.
But the familiar feels safe
so I convince myself
I'm just anaemic.
You can see there's something
there behind our eyes
and we're not as
pretty as we seem.
There's something wrong
and it cries.

There's so many simmering pastures,
please stop the bristled fingers
that infiltrate my body like pretty
splinters making bruises and
tearing my hopes apart
as if they're just some book.
I've been naive in the past 
but now I know not to trust you.
Tomorrow always fades away
with greying moon dust.

Phosephenes in daylight
confuse me to the point of no return,
I don't know what it takes
to love another person.
My friend got an invite to a party
but the doppelgängers didn't let me in.
Forget the effleurage,
from now on I'll look after myself.
They're sending out carnations,
I felt a pinch from the other side.
The leaving me mantra begins,
would I still be a burden if I died?
Selcouth childhood,
I don't want to be a bother.
I've been keeping secrets,
even from my chosen mother.
I'm on the usual night shift,
black shadows elevate and I'm gone.
An actress with a new role,
I stand there while they poke their fun.
Rage stays hidden,
various unhealthy patterns
invade my bloodstream.
Then bats and devils part their ways
to aggravate my self esteem.

I dig myself deeper
every ambient night.
I'm unaware,
disguised as summer light.
This sweet meadow,
It lost its charm when i
Conjured evening shadows,
my sadness in flight.

A homesick hydrangea,
sapphire as a bluebird,
navy like a day
that turns into a sourly sea.
Who I used to be is in another timeline
way across the tides,
indigo and conscientious
of what I left behind.

In Sylvia Plath,
I find a similarity in our solitude
There's rainy weather opposing
misty blue violet glooms
and all of the landscapes
no longer bloom for me.
They contradict the hope
growing upon the seaside.

I even astound myself
with my clear disinterest.
With each iris eye,
I forget the ones I hold dearest.
Even in sleep, my perceptions are
a skewed crescent
of a story untold,
kept in myself so close
yet so distant.