“Mirror, mirror” said the wall, “who’s the fairest of them all?”

One more dandelion

I’m running along the edge.

Long forgotten whispers

Threatening to break out of

My head.

Escape to the brighter horizon, there the tiny seagulls sing, songs of welcoming. Burn in the bright eye of the sun, fall from your lord’s gaze, this is the epitome of grace.

Search empty oceans for fallen stars, pieces of society forgotten and enveloped by the warm, hot summer sun. Dragged onward by quaking butter words, slippery on the tongue, smooth in the throat, whispering lies to strangers regularly. Her desperation leads to footprints in the mud along the beach, they begin in an even pattern, obviously running, running, running away. Later we see the truly erratic nature of her ladybug imprints, leading us in a lonely waltz across the dry forgotten sands, no progress made, but madness.

Emotionless pride, lost in the pull of an often forgotten stream. Words that mean to me what an apple means to a starving man, less than they appear.

Quaking.

Frothing.

Formulating.

Absinthe dreams and my pockets filled with secrets. A car filled with my possessions, driving into a dark night sky. Asking questions that are answered by obsession and depression. Meaning, nothing is important and the world is a well-oiled machine. There’s a formula for everything from human nature to the color of the sky. Feed me fucked up lies on a silver platter, sex and death all in the same hour. I think I may be forgetting how to breathe. Dwelling on your desires, learning to ignore my urge to say, “fuck.” Falling in love, falling away, sleeping and teasing and having a cow. Creating and destroying and moaning and groaning and screaming and weeping until I forget what the difference is.

I forget about you, about your folded up cardboard wings, like the plastic-hearted person that I am. My feelings for you are plastic too, little pieces of polyurethane tossed to you from my smooth plastic hand, they dissolve upon touching your warm rough skin. You tell me that everyone is plastic, the crows whisper to you lies. Then everyone seems to cry. Pouring clear streams of salty tears from the corners of their painted eyes, why, oh please tell me why! We’re all the same. Let’s laugh. Run backwards along yellow brick roads and hold hands with brainless scarecrows in an attempt to explain the intensity of desire, something felt only for little girls in blue aprons. They burst into a million tiny pieces, confetti in the raspberry night air.

Boys who wear dresses on Saturday nights and play spin the bottle wearing nothing but their underwear are the essence of insanity, they are the secret solution to liberty. He kisses me and looks at me with his painful angel grey eyes, his eyelashes all clumped with mascara-tinted tears, and I want to fuck him, I want him to want me. Strange sexuality tinted with me wanting him me wanting her him wanting him wanting this wanting that wanting what? Why does he have to be so painfully pretty? Every day he holds my fingers in his own perfect pale hand, his grey eyes seem to bore into my skull, cracking me with their unflinching honesty, and he whispers "I love you." and we walk down to the caf for cocoa. To him this is eternity. Forget about old age, we’re here and this is now. No end and no beginning. So I'm afraid of losing him, the way he just shrugs off any semblance of normality like a winter coat on a summer day makes me afraid that he’ll start fucking me with words...fuck fuck fuck I'm leaving. The way he fucks his boyfriend. Not really, and what we have is already so perfect it hurts. And um...I'm in love with the world sometimes. There's a certain beauty in its grapevine wilderness and bleeding heart desertion.

Nothing at all, but also everything.

It's all so crazy and irrelevant. I'm struggling with all of this, and I'm failing.

It was a good day, nothing special, but good.

I need new socks.