She calls me crying in the afternoon. When she says the word miscarriage it sounds haunted. A voice thick with saliva and licking at the window screens

True story: "she tells us later that she put the rest of the litter in a bag before taking a hammer to their skulls."

Welcome to the teenage wonderland: everything from rebellion to self-destruction to, worst of all, love. Fifteen-year-old Allison Moss doesn't stand a chance. Or does she?

a simple wish.

and because i didn't intend to be this broken slut

these songs are all too happy

We’re lying in the silence where revolutions wax and wane. line breaks revised, 16.2.08.

she would never write him love lettters.

until we were in Penn Station

Because we were bored and stupid.

This is her: a modern queen.

like january, you leave me cold [breakup scenes in the corner cafe]

we are split in such thin slices.

she, he, it wounds

the word trust doesn't have much meaning with us.

.........

she's either cancer or the cure.

Who says perfection tastes sweeter than this?

i overheard in the hall that was what had happened and something in me snapped

Sometimes life requires a button that says Restart. [my thoughts on suicide] See SuicidaL for a related topic.

Just running in circles all the time, doing laps 247...some say it's excellent exercise. [Bullshit].[H]

In the end, the original way was always best.[H]

Collar bones are elegant, but ribs are for the simply elite. Please review.

there's always something to avoid.

i’ve sung this nightmare before except this time i’m not writing, i’m screaming.

She longs for an echo of herself, slung against her hip.

It's just a childrens game you know...

So, thanks for the good time even though most of them were pretty bad...

a new morning. a new freedom. [Haiku]

I'm so [not] sorry.

This time, it's for you...

[Cancer kills] not only people, but dreams.

We met again last night in another of my nightmares.

Not so sure if I like this. How do you find the missing man?

You've asked me why several times before. Finally, I have found the answer.

he can shift in his seat: uncomfortable

[the lock and key that closed the door] first personal poem in awhile. I guess even my superiority needs to fade into emotion.

...The only reason I was never a household name was because all my fans lived in apartments...[mitch hedberg]

The alarm clock destroys the utopia that she finds in sleep.

At the corner of always and never, I sit.

Story of my life.

I read what you wrote.

She wants to guide her hands along the body of the universe, hands lingering, mouth tasting...everything.

Tears dry up when the truth dies inside of you.

i fall in love with the other bus patrons when i'm bored.

Well, I tried anyway.

COMPLETE. A story about a girl, a story about her past, and a story about her addiction to fp. [REVISED: June.25.07]

this is mine.

My second grade art has turned into an obsession...

The true life of a writer.

I just have to know.

Recounting childhood.

Neither broken hearts nor lost dreams

she's an origami girl, arms and legs folded like tiny paper cranes

My teacher told us all to write the stories of our lives...and this was my question in response to that...

We paint ourselves all colours of the rainbow. I am every last one of them. 4 March, 2007.

Step. Step. Don't worry. Step. Step. He loves you so much. Step. Step. You've gotten this far. Step. Step. A couple more steps won't hurt you at all. Step. Step. Will it? [Revised]

emergency room tabloids of slicing hearts on grey's anatomy

forget romeo & juliet, let's be bonnie & clyde.

the poetgirls are striking back, scarred limbs and messy hair have never been so beautiful.

With a simple ending.

[used to be in my profile] hello my name is m i r a n d a & I have a problem

& I promise /I will not/ CRACK

(from the inside out(shatter my resolve, and laugh while I'm d.y.i.n.g-you're killing me)...this-is-exageratted

we don't need wings to fly, just an overpass and the accelerator.

Part poem, part prose, part monologue. All biographical. Everything that happened on July 12, 2005 and afterward.

your all so perfect, your bones sticking through your skin (can I be like you, blonde, beautiful, t h i n)

Car crash poetry - its almost been a year: "I was sobbing in the ambulance."

Greek?, I ask, Norse, he corrects - I always let people think I was older then I really was.

Saving raindrops in a rusty tin coffee can

sex, drugs, and one more cliche. some girls are born cheshire.

We lived like Bohemians.

i dunno...

I throw myself on your grave every day and look up to heaven, hoping you'll forgive me for every M I S T A K E I made with you.

Prostitutes, drug dealers, and revenge. Who says good girls can't be bad?

My eyes have already seen too much.

Haiku on inevitability.

...politically [in]correct...

To Jessica; two years gone.