Listening to: The Verve Pipe - Freshmen (and Switchfoot)
Feeling: Like a pin could drop and the whole world could explode and everything would still be quiet, so quiet.

The world is quietest before a storm. That's what my mother always said, but then again, she usually was the storm, with a bucket in one hand and a cleaning cloth in another. It was a storm of chaos but also of creation. The house would be spotless when she was done, and smelling of lemon and soap suds.

I wondered if I would emerge from this event one day and think back on it as being a 'molding moment' in my teenage years. If I could have screamed, I think it would have echoed into the future and reminded my 30-something self that this was something that could have been stopped, ceased, ended; so that we would still have that year as Freshmen, even if we lived it in arrogant whistlessness.

I crouched down and tried to catch my breath. If I lived, it was going to be a long 80-something years. I traced the scars in my heart that pumped the blood that ran through the veins that created fusion in my fingertips and I realized that I was cold. So cold. I read once that blood is blue and just turns red when it's exposed to air. I shivered. I didn't want to be so cold. And I didn't want to be in that room, with the high ceilings and the blue tinted lights and tiled floors.

I unlocked the door and gasped as I let myself out, acknowledging the change in atmosphere. Repetition is sanity, so I applied another coat of lip gloss to my trembling lips and then walked with the click click of heels out of the girl's bathroom (unfortunately without a sign and just a Rm. 145 on it. We had been briefed about in on the first day; the boy's room was 146. I couldn't see why they didn't just stick little stick figures up so that people wouldn't go in there confusing the girls room with the math class.) I ran my finger along the wall as I walked.

I saw Suzy Peters sitting against one of the lockers and letting her legs drape into the hallway. I had gone to school with Suzy since the fourth grade. We were on the bus together. Her mom was an old friend of my mom. Needless to say, we never talked to each other. I kept walking, avoiding her lumbering feet. I had heard a couple of weeks ago that Suzy almost overdosed on the long weekend. I had heard that she almost got caught with it on school grounds a week before. I shut my eyes. The world was worse when you heard the secrets in whispers of lips and catches of tongues rather than from the person themselves. I glanced over my shoulder at that girl once more, and I saw her pink scraggly hair, her laced up army boots and her kind, soft smile.

I gasped and lurched forward clutching my stomach, my foot catching on someone's stranded binder. I cut my forehead, at my temple, and I let the warm, sticky blood drip onto my fingers. Red is such a vibrant colour. Black seems so deathly and dark and hatred, while red is the colour of poppies and love and plump apples in the summertime. I wobbled as I stood up. No one would be there to catch me. No one would care. I looked at my fingers, now dyed a dripping red, and I had the wildest temptation to write a crude message in blood on the hallways walls. I smiled a little at that.

My class was on the right. I ducked in. Science. Teacher was talking some shit about molecules. I wondered if we were that vain. I wondered if we were that small. I sat down silently, glad my seat was next to the door, where no one would notice my quiet appearance through disappearance. I felt a slight pain on my shoulder. I wondered if I had cut it there too.

"Psst! Mandy!" I turned my head with the least amount of energy I could muster. I didn't want the attention. Not now.

It was Sawyer Allen. Sawyer was a baseball star. They called him Sawing Sawyer because he needed a nickname. Every famous sports star has a nick name. I didn't think that was true , but let boys be boys, I guess. He said my name by moonlight and gave me melted chocolates and drooping flowers. His hand was caught in a frozen throwing position. I looked down. A pencil. It was a pencil that hit me. I looked back up. "Mandy," he whispered, "you're bleeding!" He pointed to his forehead and gave me a 'what-kind-of-freak-are-you?' look.

So I swore. Louder than Sawyer's whispering. Quite loud in fact. Loud enough to disturb the teacher from his lecturing about the importance of goggles. He was demonstrating, and when he turned around he was wearing a pair of the too-big glasses on his face and looked like a gaping sea-monster, staring at me. The whole class was staring at me. I nearly puked right then and there. The embarrassment was a boiling hot bullet train on its way up my esophagus and I choked it down.

"Uh, Ms. Jacobs, you have permission to go to the bathroom and get that cleaned up," he cleared his throat and fixed the goggles on his face. "Now, Ms. Jacobs. "

I slid out of my chair. Sawyer threw his eraser at me. His hand frozen again in that throwing position. I wondered if I loved this boy. I stooped to pick up the pencil and eraser and threw them back at him. He caught them with ease and winked at me with gusto. I exited. I heard the irate science teacher yell, "Be back in 3 minutes. No less." Anal bastard.

I saw Suzy still sitting there. Her eyes were closed and her knees were pulled up to her chest. I could scream. I could scream and she wouldn't even hear me.

I went into room 145 and clutched the edges of the sink. The water was running. Someone had left it on. I dared a glance forward into the mirror. I didn't understand how I couldn't notice it. The blood had made a thick red clot on the left side of my forehead and was dripping down my face casually. There were smears of it on my cheeks, on my neck, on my clothes. Had I assumed it would just stop? That the cut would just dissappear? The blood. Oh, hell, the blood. I threw my face into the cold, running water just as two girls from my basketball team came in, throwing their bouncy curls over their shoulders and clicking on the tiles. It reminded me of Poodles. One of them had a boyfriend who was in jail because he was fighting with some kid in the parking lot one day and killed him. Killed him. The kid was lying on the cement, kissing devils, and flying with angels. Holy Fucking Shit and he was gone.

A screech came from the stall that one of the girls was in. I didn't turn my head. I didn't look. I let the water clean the red away, swirling it down with the grime.

"Oh my god! Oh my god. That is SO gross." I could hear the girls jabbering in the one stall. The other girl had found the need to run over to assist the screaming girl in her screaming. Bloody hell, what was it this time? Someone forget to flush?

"Get some toilet paper!"

"Oh god."

"Eww! Someone peed on that, you know!"

I lifted my head from the drowning water and grabbed more paper towels than I needed to wipe off my face. I more than literally buried myself in the scrubbing dry of my face.

"Shit, wait, Stace. It says Pregnant. Do we know anyone who is pregnant?"

The girl's voices got hushed into that secret whispering of tongues and lips.

I turned and exited the bathroom, my hand pushing that heavy door open and my heart falling behind.

I went down the hall, faster this time. Suzy was gone. I continued through the red doors to the outside. Red. Funny, I thought. My lips curled into a smile. I could paint the doors red. What an awfully funny colour.

The wind was moving at an accelerated rate, like a storm was brewing. I laughed. I suppose it was. The quiet was gone. It was time. I wondered briefly if there would be quiet after the storm as well.

The bridge by our school was made in commemoration of a railway. I liked that. A bridge being made to honour a railway. I held tight to the handrails and looked down. I wasn't quite at the middle yet, but I would get there. The wind assured that. The cars were going so fast. A ridiculous pace compared to the wind. I wished that the bridge had been over water. Water is like when you get sick and you eat chicken noodle soup and you fall into a sleep that nearly attacks you because it is so forceful in its ways. Like sinking sand. No matter how hard you try, you can't help that heavy feeling of sinking and knowing that getting out is inevitable. I wished it was a lake. But, hell, I didn't need to be picky.

I stepped up on the rail and closed my eyes. Words zipped along by the wind flew through my head. It says Pregnant... He killed him... 3 minutes. No less... you're bleeding... she almost overdosed... it's always quietest before the storm.

I laughed. A high, funny laugh that sounded so out of place in this world. My lips hooked into a grin. I could paint the doors red.

The Spider

The night seeps into shadows and calls out the liars like a precise game of tag, played by animatronic children with devil-red eyes. There is a price to be paid, taken in hand with the spider's token. A web of capricious lies. Tell me, Spider, who is your next victim? The Spider will reply, drooling and slurping, that it is written on the web, the name of the next victim in spirally, sticky letters. Well, tell me once more, what does it say? The Spider will laugh and curl one of its many villous legs, beckoning, come closer, my dear, and see for yourself. The night draws me in calling of softer, sweeter things and I drown in the sticky sweetness of the words. The Spider lusts while the grasshoppers play soft chords of echoing violin into the dreamless sky. It was never better than this. The Spider's token is repaid and the stars are spun in a web of seamless intricacies. Oh, and how the night plays on...

The Rebuttal (x2)

(Written by Elly and I. A rebuttal to "The Emotional Screen" seen on http://desperateforyourattention.blogspot.com/)

Dearest Rose that plagues your heart with its soft sweet scent and gentle petals, calling out to you.

Visit us, the thousand roses that grow on thickest vines wrapped around a wall of deceit.

A wall of a thousand lies, painted with the color of despair, and monochromatic shades of lost love.

Nothing can define your love.

Swords sharpen rose petals until they are wilted.

Are you wilted, inside your cell?

We, who will not sit idly by and wait for heart ache to break the plausible wall that redefines our world...we will find strength in breaking barriers.

Resist allowing the icy grip of ease destroy your beauty.

It will swallow your pride, and wring the life from your once freewheeling soul. Spurn the creature feeding on your generous love, and find your way back to cobblestone paths and rainbow roads.

We will be waiting with bricks in our hands, from long days tearing down the wall to your soul, now adding them to your path.

The path that holds new beginnings, and adventures.

You can breathe, now that you're alive.

We are the stars that guide your road.

Bringing you closer to the forgotten treasure of our universe.

Roses aren’t so beautiful that have thorns.

Roses which take revenge upon our open hearts.

Feeding on our love, meant to be shared with those whom ignore it.

It is they that bear the thorns.

That torment us behind our screens.

And us, with swords in hand that strike the lovely roses dead.

And so dear, when chance next brings you to this place, forget what you have last seen.

The wall forgotten, the roses strewn.

Across the never-ending plain of our love for you

Dictate (to me)
the stars,
and how your love shines,
like a golden firefly,
in the depths
of darkest night.
The clouds intoxicate me,
and how they seem
to make me wish
that you were never
here.
Pearls string to lights of decadence.
And I am fallen
from this hopeless banquet
of tired love.
Of searching souls
too frightened by childhood light
and the monsters
that lie in their own eyes.
Tell me how love is harsh,
cruel, and mean.
Tell me how the lightning
deems to strike it down,
and thunder
to throw it apart;
tattered and torn.

No, Sir, the Carnival is not coming to town. Please, step off of the elevator and wait for the red balloon.

I appear to be suffering from a mild case of writer's block. If anyone would like they can provide me with some inspiration, much like toilet paper, to fuel my brain on the subject of writing. Hopefully these problems will be solved without having to resort to a method I like to call "Brain Cells Meet Wall Cells". Thank you for your understanding.

His glasses cut sharply around his eyes and curved his nose. They threw back the gleam from dawning light posts, and blinded passersby. "Look, Danny, I'm sorry." He tossed a dime high into the air and caught it behind his back.

I felt the cool rush of passing cars on my cheeks and I leant back on the hood of our old '69 Mustang. "It's too late, Len..."

He swore and threw the dime across the road like it was a silver stone he was trying to skip over a lake's glassy surface. He then stepped backwards and threw his hands up to smooth back his glossy hair. "So, this is how it's going to end."

"Well, fuck, what do you think?" I brought one of my feet up onto the grill of the car, with my elbows propping me up on the hood. The car was a violent red, foreshadowing what only we could trace; our lives a gamble sort of thing, wielding ourselves as dangerous things.

He licked his thumb, an old habit, and drew it against his forehead in a long sweeping stroke. The night was nervous; tension was brought into the air by way of thick storm clouds. I drew in a breath, and so did Lenny. We were old partners, he and I, but this time there was no denying that he was loose, his thought pattern faltering and his body griped with some kind of fear I couldn't comprehend.

I let out a long, low whistle. The night howled in return, and ol' Len shook, his fingers playing idly with his lighter. On, Off. Spark, Silence. Life, Death.

There was only our old 'stang parked by the roadside gas station, the other cars were like a bad dream, blurring by too fast to see but only to catch a glimpse of what other people's nights held. I hoped to God that there's would not be as dilapidating as ours.

And then that goddamned Lincoln '78 banked our way. It was a dark, shading colour; appropriate for our game. Lenny gave me a fast, hard look and I slipped off the hood, instinctively reaching for the handgun that Frank had generously allowed me to relieve him of when he was busy kissing asphalt and bleeding from a shot to the head. It was a nice weight on my hip, resting between my jeans and my skin, beaded with moisture from the damp, sticky night, which threatened to drown us out, along with the encompassing headlights of the Lincoln.

I rounded the back of the Mustang and popped the trunk, just as I heard the slamming of doors on the car in front of us. Len was running his hands around each other, wringing ‘em out like an old cloth. I heard a gruff voice say to him, “You look nervous, Jim.” I could imagine how Len was reacting, his face all fidgety and hands playing inside his pocket with pennies and dimes and quarters.

I was quick to reach out the suitcase, with its shiny handle, and pull the top of the trunk back down with a satisfied click. My heels clicked against the road and I tried to carry myself with flair, as if to take away from Lenny’s lack of.

A smoother voice greeted me, although I knew it to be the same, a change in appearance does not change the chameleon’s clock-turning eyes or curling grip. “Daniel, what a pleasure it is to see you here. How have you been? You look just like your mother, you know.”

“Cut it, Nathan. This is what you came here for, right? So let’s just do the dance and get it done.” My eyes showed him as already dead; a non-applicable threat. I weaved a look at Len. He was considerably calmer, beads of sweat falling down his forehead in slow, rolling motion.

Nathan smiled coyly and motioned to one of the guys behind him. As the man brought him a similar suitcase, he said, “Listen, sweetheart, this exchange is going to be fast and smooth, alright? No tricks. Your father was always with the tricks.” His eyes were like those headlights, circling and trapping, a slow and inevitable game. “And you don’t want to end up like him.”

I was tempted to grab my gun, swing it around and blast his face open, though, I didn’t. I lied, “No tricks,” and gave him my hand. In it, he placed his suitcase and I similarly placed my suitcase in his open hand. The cars hazed past and my hair blew up, caught by the wind, and was flung to the right. I kept my eyes on Nathan’s, as he did on mine.

Smirking, he said to the man on his left, “Check it,” and gave him the suitcase.

Unbeknownst to them, I had placed a gun in the suitcase, triggered with a spring so that, when opened, the trigger would be pulled, shooting a direct bullet into anyone who deemed the right to open it. The shot rang clear and the man fell like a brick.

Two more shots and Lenny had pegged his other man, as well as one of the tires of the Lincoln. I considered this unnecessary, seeing as there was a gas station not 2 miles from us, but I allowed it, letting Len have his fun.

Anger grew in Nathan’s eyes, and I could see he was trying to submerge it beneath himself. I laughed and twirled my own gun from the back of my jeans. Lenny smiled cautiously, and turned his gun to Nathan’s head. Nathan raised his hands above his head and said, “You lied. Sour trick, Daniel, I must say, and smart too, but wouldn’t you know that I have other men posted around here? You mustn’t have thought I was that dense, hey?”

“You don’t have other men around here.” I kept my voice level, sure of my words.

“How sure of that are you, Daniel?”

I rolled my eyes around to their corners and tried to see out of the blur. I was sure that he had no other men as watchdogs…I had checked earlier, hadn’t I? My eyes matched with Len’s and he shook his head, stepping across from me, and turning his gun to face mine.

“Look, Danny, I’m sorry,” he said, softly.

I choked on his words, “It’s too late, Len…”

“So, this is how it’s going to end.” Nathan was smirking, having lowered his hands and was watching us with curious eyes.

I swallowed hard, “Well, fuck, what do you think?”

I felt the wind pick up, as if the cars were competing with each other, and I had an idea that buzzed through my mind. My shot rang clear and I felt my body slam back against the hood of the Mustang. I heard the sharp screeching of the wrecked tire and I saw Nathan’s shocked face, as well as Len’s blank one. A wave of pressure pushed me back again and the body of the rusted Accord Sedan flew over. I felt as if I was under the belly of a great whale for a moment. A great look of anguish flushed over Nathan’s face as the front of the Sedan battered into him. And then Nathan and the car were gone. I remember running. The two of us were running, despite our furied battle minutes ago. I felt myself being pushed down, against the side of the Mustang and all of a sudden I realized that Len was beside me.

He spoke in great gasps, “Look….Danny...I’m sorry.”

I buried my head into my hands and said, “It’s too late, Len.”

He threw his gun so it skated across the road and said, “So, this is how it’s going to end.”

I nearly laughed as I said, “Well…Fuck!” There was a large explosion from the car and Len and I ducked against the heat and flying car parts.

The night, with all its threatening, never rained, and as Len and I walked down that tranquil blue road, I turned and gave him an accusing stare.

He shrugged and said, “What?”

I shook my head, “Do you think?” I was about to continue with ‘before you do stupid things like that?’ but he stopped me as his lips pushed the thought out of my mind.

It was an odd thing, this game we played. I pushed my gun up against his stomach with an audible click, and he just kept kissing me.

It's like...love. Like, I want so much to be in love. My life mission is written in pink lipstick: love. I want to be....in love...so much...that throwing myself off a building, seems right. That rain is all I need, and you...I need you so much...my imaginary you. You see, life doesn't fit just in one category, and so neither does love.I breathe love...I taste it...And yet I can never hold it in my hand, like your hand, so soft and pure.Fuck, why can't I just be happy with what I have? And this whole thing is just a corporate scam; love, that is... And if this is all just made up, then what really, is the point of living? To hope for love and never find it? To shatter into a million pieces...I would rather taste the poison. Give me the gun. I don't want it anymore. I don't want to express this hollow world, anymore. I want love...I want you...and so like a spoiled child, if this is all for not, then allow me to say goodbye and tilt my hat with all good graces. I hope you'll understand, is what they all say. I say I don't need hope any more...if I can't seek from it love...I can't say I was ever sorry. You don't believe me, do you? Or, if you do, you will know that there is no cure to the realization of reality. Goodnight, or rather, goodbye. I can't say I will miss you, good old friend.

I see her silhouette in the sunset.
The kind of girl that likes
to dream without limits;
that reads books like
Shakespeare and Treasure Island,
always getting lost in that
wonderful fantasy world of hers.
I wish I could get lost too,
instead of standing so firm on cement,
my heart made of steel,
the gun in my hand,
a heavy, heavy feeling.
On Sunday mornings, and late yawning nights,
she likes to watch old cartoons,
like Duck Dodgers and Rocket Robin Hood,
they make her feel like a kid,
cosmically detached from the saddened world,
for a few hours,
as she crunches cereal out of the box,
and I crunch up the letters,
that I will never send,
to this girl,
the one who recites love poems
off the top of her head;
the one whose tears fall as sparks,
ignited by the fire in her soul.
The hours count down,
the minutes go by,
and I allow this harshened reality,
of my lost love,
to leave me.
And as I pull the trigger,
I gasp out in alarm,
as she opens the door,
her arms full of bags,
and her keys jangling from their awkward spot,
between her teeth.
My heart stops,
just as the brown bags fall from her arms,
and I hear a loud crash,
not knowing if it is me hitting the floor,
or her bags.
The last thing I hear is the sound of her soft sweet voice,
calling out my name,
and the jingle of her keys as they fall through the air.
I wonder distantly,
if she will miss her Sunday cartoons,
or maybe if she'll miss me.
Perhaps, I think,
I am buried somewhere in her heart,
like the treasure,
on Treasure Island.
I never did like that Hawkins kid.

So I told you I loved you,
and you laughed and called me a whore.
It didn't matter,
because at night,
when you were sleeping,
I liked to trim your eyelashes,
and write lewd message on the back of your neck,
where you'd never find them.
I kept telling myself,
that you would love me,
one day,
maybe.

An Excerpt

-From One Of My Unfinished Stories.

Cigarettes at three a.m. It was a nasty habit, I know, but when I smoked all I tasted was smooth. That’s all. Besides, it wasn’t like a habit of mine or anything. I just did it whenever I couldn’t sleep. If I did smoke during the day, I would get caught. My mother and father are nothing but loving, caring, suspicious as hawks, parents. So, at three a.m. on a Saturday morning, I opened my window and climbed out on the roof.

My roof was brown and covered in spots of white (from the falling excrement of birds, what a pleasure.) The only exception to this décor was a hint of red, noticeable only to the sophisticated eye (meaning my parents hadn’t noticed it in the 6 months I had it and other packages up there).The red was mostly hidden under a broken shingle, but a section of it had torn and flapped loosely in the wind.

I made no hesitation in flicking the red my way and pulling out a long white tube filled with basically trash and cleaning products. I stuck it obtrusively in the corner of my lips and fished a green lighter out of my pajama-pants’ pocket. I had put the lighter in there before going out. I’m not exactly a pyromaniac or anything that needs to be attached to a flame 24/7. So, don’t take it that way.

The lighter blazed to life when I pressed down the button that literally made it spark to existence. I didn’t let it live long. I snapped the lighter shut and stuck it back in my pocket.

Smooth.

The sky gave no sign that day promised to break (or rather, to shatter) in only a few hours. I stretched out my legs and leaned back. I made grey clouds in the night with a puff of my breath. There were no stars. There never was. I breathed in and sighed out.

Normally I thought about all the whys, and the what ifs. I thought about the world. I thought about my life. I thought about days, weeks and months. I thought about the sky, the earth, the sun, and the moon. I thought about suffering and pain. I thought about love and friendship. I thought about being free. I thought about jumping off that roof. I thought about David Quarry. I thought about human existence. But today I just breathed in the toxic waste, waiting for the blurry spots around the edges of the horizon; waiting for light to conquer this sullen dark. It would seem that I was always just on the edge of that horizon, waiting.

I finally stopped looking for that sunrise at the end of my third cigarette. I usually only have one, to calm my nerves and soothe the sticking feeling in my throat, but I was tenser today. I needed so much to calm down. I was almost contemplating going over to Mark’s and hassling him for a swig or two of the stuff (vodka, I think…but I can never be sure) he keeps in the back of his closet. I flicked the butt of my cig (god that sounds incredibly stupid) past the roof so it dropped down into the yard, but not before squishing it out on the side of the house. The last thing I wanted was to start a fire (I told you I wasn’t a pyromaniac.)

I glanced back inside. I honestly couldn’t comprehend how I existed in such a tiny box. I checked the sky once more. The dark was only compelling in the daytime. I wanted none of it now. With my red jacket pulled tight around my body like mummy sleeves, I climbed back into my room.

I won’t note on my room. It’s nothing extraordinary. It’s not the sky.

I pulled the lighter out of my pocket and threw it on my bed. I immediately grew dissatisfied and picked it up, flicking it on and off, on and off. It became a metaphor for my mind, on and off, on and off. After a few moments of wonder I became disgusted and dropped the green lighter into the wastebasket beside my bed.

I checked the digital clock on my bedside table. It was only 5:15. Maybe I did have enough time to go over to Mark’s. I pulled off my pajamas and slipped into my trademark jeans and a t-shirt. I pulled my red jacket back on and enveloped myself in its warmth. Then I slipped out the window, once more.

I was almost off the roof before I crawled back for a cigarette and to fish my lighter out of the wastebasket. I breathed in heavily as I charged down the sidewalk. I thought of catching the bus to Mark’s house, but then thought better of it. The walk would do me good, besides, who knew when the bus would be getting to my regular stop or if they were even running at this time of day?

A couple minutes later I found myself sitting in a plastic blue seat and looking very hard out the window at the scene passing, so quickly, right in front of my eyes.

I had to put my cigarette out before I got on. Those were the rules of Mr. Bus Driver. I figured I would just bum one off of Mark when I got to his house, or maybe I wouldn’t need it after hassling Mark into giving me something nice to drink.

Someone coughed. I blinked and turned around in my seat.

There weren’t many people on the bus; only me, a kid that looked only a couple years older with a black toque and a pierced lower lip, and a tired-looking woman, who looked like she had just come from her job as a waitress. Oh, and, not to forget, Mr. Bus Driver, himself, staring fixatedly at the road.

It was the waitress-woman who coughed. She was sitting across and a seat back from me. She had what people might refer to as salt and pepper hair, done up in triggered knots against the back of her head, and her eyes were cast downward, almost as if in permanent absolution. Her hands were crossed neatly on her lap, and her feet were glued tightly together. I took note of my own posture: legs hanging off to the side, arms languidly on the back of the seat, head pressed against the window with little resolution. If I could guess, I would speculate that this woman was in her early-twenties. The lines on her face would indicate otherwise. I made a deal with myself, on that dreaded bus, that I would never be that small, that scared, that timid in a world where half the fight is just getting up every damned day.

And I got off the bus at the very next stop.

Juxtaposingly,
I.
Love.
You.

Your teleconference with the president was cut short. I'm sorry to have to say that next time it would be wise to not bring in a lighter that is apparent of the shape of a gun. And smoking is not allowed in the whitehouse, if you please.

The sky was replaced with light from the beyond that spilled down to the chosen few,
while the ground switched to a hell-ish red glow that broke between the cracks of the pungent earth.
I always knew we were close...
...to the end of the world, that is.
I couldn't deny that I had revelled in it.
I had the share of blood underneath my fingernails.
And I had waited,
for you.
I had killed,
for you.
I had brought with me Hell,
and waged against it Heaven,
so you could choose,
a higher ground.
So you could find you're saving grace.
And I wondered,
as I watched the lava flow from the volcano's mouth,
if you were some voice out there,
screaming to the lords,
raging to the life,
of you.
Please dear,
if you will not show,
take a stroll and find yourself,
in the depths of Hell,
so I might brush past your earthly glow,
and drain out your life with a kiss or two.
I swear I didn't mean to be like this,
but damn I love it so.
I swear I always loved you,
and the way you fell to the ground,
when I wanted more.
I'm not sorry,
that this is now,
but I hope that when you choose,
you won't choose the skies,
and fall as rain on the tempid earth,
and wash out my flurrid love.

(Okay, so what if tempid and flurrid aren't words...I don't need no damned dictionary! Man, what a waste of words in this post..I don't like it very much.)

The lighting was skewed in tones of blue and green hues. Her eyes were inquisitive as she stared not 5 centimeters from his face into his closed eyes. Her hair draped down the nape of her neck and spilled down to graze his cheeks. The room was silent except for the rain trickling down the window pane, and the way her breathing intermingled with his, as she rested in his arms on the small mattress.
"Where do you go when you sleep?" Her voice played in the air like chimes in the wind, hinting at something sweet, like liquor down your throat.
An eye opened on the boy, his voice tired, "I don't know..." Then, after a moment's silence, "You dream, I guess."
"What's it like?"
A heavy echoing sigh that trickled down his throat like the rain outside, "What do you mean?"
"What's it like to dream?"
He rolled over and stretched his arms above his head, "It's okay, I guess. It's like a whole other world, you know?"
"No...I don't."
"I suppose you wouldn't." He turned to gaze into her kaleidoscope eyes and shuddered before turning away.
"I didn't mean to be like this."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her eyes focused on his with a boring intensity.
"No, not really, I guess." The wall kept his attention as he spoke, his voice faltering only slightly.
"I want so much to know what it's like...to dream." She ran her fingers through her multi-coloured hair and closed her eyes, "I don't even know the light from the dark anymore."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"No."
"Do you love me?" The rain echoed the silence, tapping at the window like a pendulum, a steady reminder of how the tempo has changed.
"I love everything about you."
"But do you love me?"
"Yes."
"In colour?"
"Yes. I love you in every shade."
She peeled herself off the bed and walked over to the window. Her skirt was resting crooked on her hips and shone an elastic-blue. Her screaming-pink shirt was loose and hung over her arms but was cut off at her stomach. Her stockings were neon green and were disjointed around her knees. Bare feet touched brown carpet and she stretched them out to hold her up like a dancer of graceful arts. She placed one bracelet-covered arm up to the window and then moved to press her cheek against the pane. "I'm only real when it rains. Rain is fair. It chooses to touch every soul, and doesn't choose only the privileged. The rain, like love, defines the world and how it's supposed be. I wish I could be a raindrop, fallen from the sky. A blessed gifted thing that turns into a dancing, crystal figure when winter comes. I wish I could fall and splatter against the cheek of a lost soul and give them hope in finding life in this harsh world. I wish I could help them see the light, so that they won't become like me."
"It's not your fault." The boy sat up and looked sadly at the girl.
"And is it God's?"
"It's a gift."
"A gift...a gift to live life through darkness and never be able to see the truth. Is that a gift? I would rather be the rain..."
"Don't..."
She sighed and walked over to him, her arms reaching for his as she fell onto the bed, "Tell me about your dreams."

The dead float by,
and the skies clash
and warning signs are wrought from overhead.
She keeps yelling and screaming,
while her children seek comfort in
wasted things.
The rain pours down and echoes
the chaos of the house,
like all the others,
washed in blood,
and torn with hate.
She screams.
The children listen.
She screams.
And the dead float by.

There is hope in shadows,
I think.
There is love in the deep,
soul-seeking,
dark.
I would like to learn to fly,
using broken, ashen sticks,
from fires,
still alight.
I would like to see the sun
shine on your face,
and show me
what I have forgotten.
I look out into the dark,
pitching sky,
filled with strikes,
like matches,
and howls,
like fierceful gods,
in which I've stopped believing.
On my roof I count every single raindrop,
waiting,
as the wind tries to snatch me away,
for love,
like lightning,
to strike me down.

The sky has been white-washed by my love.
The love that is not mine that paints me
in fields and oceans and with backdrops
of time,
that fade me out,
in acrylic paint.
I watch as the rain,
washes you away,
in the picture,
that you gave me,
such a long time ago.
And now you run down the gutters,
sinking in to the sewers.
Tell me,
do you see a pink bracelet down there?
I lost it when I was young.
Like I lost you.
And still your brush strokes
on the beats of my heart.
And you falter,
for a moment,
as you reach my lips,
unsure whether to paint me smiling,
or the way you always see me,
looking so, so sad.
Paint me in the skies,
so that the clouds can cover over our love,
and wash away our sins,
with the darkest rain,
like blood,
that finds its way to earth,
and soaks in as time,
finds a way to flourish,
in the eventual suffocation of our youth.
I wish I could wash away with the rain,
and into the sewers,
and find my love,
again.

Because that's just the way I feel tonight,
babe.
I want to drown out my life,
with chemicals
enduced by my brain,
and the way you make me sweat.
Horrors of life,
have turned me tired,
and restless.
Out of life,
to be out of you,
would be a terrible thing.
I don't want love.
I just want tonight.
And the martini glass that hides
your lying eyes.
I want to dance on silver-dusted rooftops,
and slip off the glance of your steady stare.
I don't want love.
I just want to fall
into tonight.
Breathe my soul into the night,
and miss the train of lullabies.
I am so perplexed by the way
you look at me.
I wish you would hold me,
for a moment,
instead of sitting so icily,
and drinking me away.
I don't want love.
I want you.

I thought you were beautiful,
when you kissed the moon
with your smile.
I thought you were happy,
when you told me
you loved me.
I thought that you were wise,
when you glanced upon
a reflection of yourself
in the water,
and threw a rock
to make a splash,
and let the ripples fade
you
out.
I thought you were real,
without really knowing
that when you were alone,
you counted raindrops that fell,
and wished they were stars,
or moons,
or meteors.
Anything to wash away the slate.
Anything to make you feel
beautiful,
happy,
wise.
Anything,
but me.

Once I owned a rainbow gun.
I filled it with sparkles and skittles and sunshine.
I would shoot it high into the air.
watching as the smiles beside me grew.
There was no war on the news,
no death,
only the brilliant shine
of the weather girl's teeth,
as she pronounced that it would be,
another warm, sunny day.
The years passed,
and time grew,
soon I was used to the sky
and the tint of red underlying the gray.
Thunderstorms and frigid snow
brought about the turning of
our news channel.
Filtering in on high frequency waves
were screams and cries of
our kin,
as we watched, popcorn in hands,
waiting for the commercials
to allow us to view the world,
through rose-tinted shades
and tunnels warped by scents of
lemon yellow sunshine
and shots of smiles much wider
than our own.
My gun grew with dust
and rust,
and they wanted me to enlist
in a war that wasn't mine to fight,
in a battle that I knew nothing of.
I put away my gun,
so that they would not find it
and plague me
with their requests for bloodshed.
But years went by and still they came.
One day, with guns of their own in hand,
they came and knocked on my door,
a steady pounding beat.
I nodded, acknowledging my defeat and
told them that I would just be
one minute.
I dusted off my gun and ran
a slick polish over its features.
They smiled when I came back,
a victory praised by their own selfish eyes,
and waved me outside to where
their truck of patterned green waited.
I walked down the grass as far as I dared,
then turned back to give them a mighty stare,
and a flip of my gun as they tilted their heads
in awe,
not for a second realizing that my gun
was not meant for warfare,
and they charged at me with guns and fists,
and I smiled wider than the commercial gods,
and pressed the trigger.
There will never be a fireworks display quite as brilliant
as the one that day,
that caused the soldiers so much grief,
a horror to be displayed,
high into the air,
with the sparkles, skittles and sunshine.
I managed to whisper, as I fell back
due to the sudden impact of the shot,
"Taste my rainbow, fuckers."
And I thought back
to the weather,
on the news.

And I always thought that you'd be worth,
a ghost of a dream,
slipped between the covers,
of satin and stone.
Somehow you crumbled
into my life and made me think
about the cracks.
And then you tore at the snags,
and whisked me away,
with you,
into torrent of icy sunshine.
I never wanted to be alive.
Without warning I began to crumble and falter,
my mind weary with haunting words,
and I saw the end to my sunshine,
and I wanted to just let go,
so I would be back where I belonged,
in the dark damp restings of hollow life.
Instead I forgave you for making me fall,
and I climbed back up to the cliff,
and jumped off again,
the sun warming my back,
as I dived into colder waters,
and found sanctity in your flaws.