What happened to the summer of daisies and old french songs? She sits in Café de Flore. There’s a Fitzgerald in her lap, yet she can't read 'cause her mind wanders; late nights, summer air, 50s, hazel eyes and the boy once she loved and still loves

eating the inside of my lip
and uncovering my back in the moonlight.
I walk the streets nonchalantly.
No hearing.
Just sight.
And taste, the taste of the inside of my lip bleeding.
I was raised to be just and to keep my eyes on the sole thing that interests me.
Meaning everything.
So it's all I do.
I sit and stare unwillingly.
Keeping track of the eyes that read me and the ones that are just passing by.
Considering.
I'm built around the social construct of being lonely.
But not really.
I'm losing the fancy words I used to fight for just like I'm losing myself.
As I leave more me on my bed than anywhere else.
I shaved today to feel a hint of self interest.
It was completely useless.
I couldn't give a **** about myself with hair or without but that's just too much to confess.
I've been trying to sing more and dance and give into the so called creativity I harness.
It's all a lie.
It's all a distraction.
It's something I want to call motivation but can't.
Am i meant to rot in the lifestyle of a movie miserable human?
Walking the streets and spazzing on my bed.
With my dreams swept out of my head.
I look in three separate mirrors everyday.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
And that's the million dollar question.
Because somehow the moment everything collapses we turn to the forbidden.
But either way I digress I'd be too afraid to do it to myself.
I've found billion other methods that make me feel that they match the situation.
**** this poem.
It's another excuse for my insomnia.
Another excuse to justify why I woke up at 11 just to fall onto another bed.
All the memories I've collected, play me such a theatre show,
And I watch wondering if they're the dream from last night or real life.
And it makes me question again.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
Not because I wanna die necessarily but because at times I'm rather lucky.
Like the universe repays me.
Like the universe cried a single tear of mercy and out of all the people it rained on me.
And it still seems like I'm ungrateful.
The universe is mistaking my head for someone else who maybe instead would know how to use that luck efficiently.
I am no such mastermind.
I've lost my book based intelligence when I was 11 and gained my eyes when I was 13.
Ironically.
So who am I and why am I not dead?
Living a paradox withing irony itself,
I'm handmade by multiple clichés.
Or that's what I think.
My dreams seemed nice until people tell me they're just a fantasy.
Oh but look at me, 16 and complaining about dreams.
I'd end up a great housekeeper I'd tell myself though nothing stays clean.
I feel old.
Old in a way I've never felt.
Like by the time I'd reach 30 I'd already be dead.
Or maybe again,
Is it all on my head?
Adolescent scent in the times of complete desolation.
I stand and I don't understand.
Who am I and why am I not dead?

MUSK(Y) SCENTS

HUMID NIGHTS

CHEAP V(O)DKA

STALE N(U)TS

STINKY CIGARETTES

These nights have a beautiful tune about them,
Soft, chaotic, random... sometimes even with an abandoned note.
Disturbed...
Off keys are important, someone tells me now;
They break away from the pattern,
Which is a good thing, apparently.
Like the dead flower on my otherwise organised headboard,
Empty, disintegrated;
Or the worm lizard on my white plastered walls,
Cold blooded, throbbing and to be honest, quite ******.
Like the bristles I have under my feet,
That don't really show, but hurt as I walk...
I cherish them all secretly.
They kind of make me feel better, elemental.
In touch with reality...
What's wrong in a little more death and decay than is 'usual'!
I know you must be disgusted when the fecund dog litters in your garage.
And you wince at the sight of naked, destitute street children,
As they knock at your rolled up cold window.
They break your pattern of the usual goodness...
You know, the taste of your Turkish coffee,
The love song in your Burkin purse!
They seem like a madness,
And you want to take a shower.
Fist clenched, listening to the water  wash the floor,
Its symphony making you quieter.

And sleep comes finally to me;
As I wonder who I will be tomorrow

If only you could hear,
All these words that I’ve discovered
Written upon the walls of my mind,
Disappearing at the wake of light.