Words words words

There are less words than ever in my mouth, and even when I write on the walls, I find a strange sensation in my hand that radiates through my veins to tell me that the feeling of endless monstrosity can only be the result of running. Nobody remembers when I go.

Contagious

Hanging from the trapezoidal recommendations for the links inside of the novelist's daydream, she held boiling tea up to her eyes so that she couldn't see what was staring back at her in the mirror. Every time she looked at herself, it seemed like another feature had been blurred away to leave a half-erased version of someone who was once considered beautiful. One day, however, when the purple specked sunrise had begun to fade into the same crystalline blue that hummed in her eyes, everyone realized in a stroke of genius, like a lightning crack to the skin, that they had bit off more than they could chew with her. She was a little bit contagious at all times, and always walked too close, held too tight, and left you with bruises and burns of which you could not identify the source. Under the influence of fairies and rocking in a hammock with a shot of vodka being dripped into her veins, she attempt to reason with the fact that she would never be good for anyone. Truth be told, it was painful enough to feel like death. When she fell asleep, everyone half hoped she wouldn't wake up.

Harassment

She had a terrible feeling that everyone was better off before they met her. Like an infection of the brain, she sunk into everyone's spinal cord until they were paralyzed with or without her.
They couldn't run away, no matter how much they wanted to.
The local supermarket ran out of straws because everyone who watched the midnight train that she rode on so silently needed someone to chew up their food so that they could be nourished enough to conform.
Harassment came in plenty of forms.

Dinner

He lost the key

She changed the lock

They wouldn't walk

and couldn't talk

They didn't drink

Only got stoned

So they could pretend

that they were alone. 

The Ramones

Hanging like a little fly-away kite on the downside of the rain cloud, she realized, when the lights were lowering next to her, that the white-washed paint wasn't really all that white anymore. She was coated in an endless supply of Reganomics and wondered whether it would ever, truly trickle down. The lights were dimming beside her until the moon showed brighter than the rest of the Las Vegas strip-show spotlights, and she couldn't tell whether North was South or East was West. All the tests she passed and failed had been dumped into the trash can that was being burned like a fireplace by the homeless man down the street, giving enough minute warmth to make this night an ounce less unbearable than the last. The letter in her pocket was a ticket to wherever she wanted to be, on the next train to get there, without a penny in interest or a braincell of trust; she would've left had her shoes not been tied down in freshly glued tar and her clothes too tattered and torn from giving more every day day than the president gives in a lifetime. An m&m had stained her jacket. She couldn't stop humming the Ramones. It was time for her to quit.

Schema

Bearing children in color palettes
and wandering without an aimlessness at all
It becomes too cold to hold a period
While you watch the smoke stain the white-washed wall.

You've bought all you need to re-carpet
You're swallowing your pride
And when it's harder to express your feelings
You impress what you've started to hide.

Dialogue doesn't write itself
Nor either do the constellation radio stars
Superstitiously making an effort
To project Grease on the dark side of Mars.

It's everybody's birthday
But no one's day of birth
Likening themselves to rounded marks
They question their own worth.

I'm bringing in my matches to the office store
To burn up all the calendars they're holding in their stock
Because it's sickening to count the days like they're too old to matter
And watch the seconds tick away off the clock.

Marxist Daydream

She would slide                               backwards and
                                                     right and up and down to
unlock the treason buried under her bed,
         next to the tattered copy of her

 BMW owners manual. 

She ripped it up and gave 

a

 page 

to every kid in the neighborhood because she didn't believe she deserved it anymore than anyone else. 

Truthfully, she deserved nothing less than everything.

 By night,                                   she would stencil 

                                                words of encouragement on electrical boxes 

that told everybody to ask someone to be their valentine and nobody to end their life. 

Everyone was beautiful. 

Everyone was beautifully flawed. 

Everyone was beautifully, flawlessly imperfect in her eyes. 

  She was decked in decadent pearls,                    fished from the nickel machine at the local arcade.

 She wore clothes that were handed down from 

a grandfather to 

his son 

to the thrift store 

to a garage sale then to her closet 

because she took the time to wonder about the histories woven delicately into the ripped up yarn of every sweater she donned and every shoe she slipped into. 

Always wet, 

always warm, 

always smooth, 

always effervescent, 

she smelled like Sunday morning, 

                                              the sun kissing your cheeks,

                                                                                      when you realize that there's no school the next day.

 She's a lost weekend that you found in the back of your closet and decide to cash in every morning until the sun ceases to rise and the moon stays out.

Even then, she'll be escapism, wrapped up in yellow, tied with a bow, and dedicated to those need her most.