lovestruck-x

this isn`t about the sound of your heart or the way wind chimes sound so fucking pretty during a thunderstorm, and i know i don`t make sense but that`s because my subconscious is talking and you know what? i don`t fucking understand myself either. but this isn`t about me. and this isn`t about you. and i think it`s snowing in the middle of july, because we`re such a world of opposites. and i find that oddly poetic. i want to tell you what`s hidden underneath this skin, to stop lying to you in ways that shall remain anonymous simply because i am jumping from star to star. moon to moon. but not planet to planet, no no, i am not that creative

little natalie was four years old, and already you could set a firework-reaction in her. the things that went through her eyes baked in her head; the things that went through her heart will not be viewable ten years later. broken glass on the garage floor. smeared tears on the mother`s nose. father doesn`t know what the fuck he`s doing. or does he? little natalie was four years old, and she brings her misunderstanding to school. no answers there. all questions here. teachers think she`s a screwed up kid, you can tell by the way they raise an eyebrow at her. she doesn`t know what she`s doing wrong; heck, she doesn`t even know that she`s doing

hello, can i tell you a secret? it takes slightly longer to look in the mirror and confirm that there are no electric firefly wings, but i`d rather save myself from the blood and sweat, and my hands still reach out aimlessly when i wake from a nightmare. hello, do you know who i am? i don`t always spend my time creating ways to say "i love you", and i like to give names to grass blades and thunderstorms and the little ladybugs that we ignore with both ears, and is that alright with you? hello, what time is it? i stare out the window and the monsters are walking on my pavements, their hearts too small to fit into each o

when you fall asleep with dead roses, waking up is the hardest part.

you find words in between a mannequin`s ribs, christening it beautiful because it speaks of lullabies that you know all too well: the world around you is laughing under moonlight, but you`re stuck indoors.  you sit on the cold wooden floor, staring into the lively fire; thoughts of regret and remorse circle around your head.  sometimes you wonder if painting the walls with rainbows will make up for this black and white world, or if you`re creating details out of nothing. but, dearest, the day your world decides to crumble down could seem so beautiful by looking at it in different points of view. imagine this:

  june 73, 2009. hey sweetheart.  love the way you strum your starstrings with motivation. did you staple your skin pores shut and substitute licorice for hair?  it looks great on you, with that poisonous sense of ambition of yours. me, i trace stars on to my scalp with the sounds of chromatic scales, a piano with more secrets than fingers and toes to count. [being the prettiest of all melodies just isn`t my thing.] we should run out of our murals sometime, like there`s nothing for us here, like the chorus singers are actually lies in disguise, because we don`t know any better than to join this riot

once you spoke of the ocean grating along dehydrated human pieces, wondering why the earth doesn`t rotate backwards, but we`re talking to the sun and we`re writing letters to the moon today.  the stars suddenly become capsized tidal pools, and the sky is falling down on us, fluttering with emotions on its back and we`ll catch them with our pockets.  i dreamt that you will take a look at many sunsets, and that they`ll shine beautiful enough for you, because these weatherless thunderstorms cause our veins to malfunction. someday we`ll plant seeds and grow gardens of plasma clusters because we`re children with no

paige: there is a skeletal disorder pouring into your brain and someday it will catch fire, while your insides are left out to bake under wrought vanity, much like a second skin.  the skeletons like to bang on windows and scream for hearts that skip beats.  the ambulance doesn`t respond, but oh!we are hurting. today, the north star`s tendons peel from the sky.  tomorrow, the only appropriate thing to do is punch doors.  the next day, you are choking dahlias because they are your favorite flower, and i always knew you were a girl of opposites. the person on the other line is verbally hideou

today we`re exchanging death in the form of pale streaks, blinding your bloodshot eyes and subtracting everything you breathe from a living phase. today we`re forgetting the doves; they are daisies in a forest fire. can you live correctly darling? [midnight suns are fresh in your system, mimicking the concept of static electricity.] we`re clutching lungs as we paint red murals on eaten boulevards. let us tangle the galaxy with patterns of saturnine bombs, screaming through stardust left behind by some careless human. the radios then kidnap our voice boxes and return them brainwashed, poisoned, do you even know who you are?

i`m holding tattered red roses and weeping eyes whenever porcelain mannequins are beneath gravestones. i am unofficially diagnosed with vertigo, but i can still see you standing there. [watch me self-destruct, c  c c rrashh.] . i`ve wasted my days chasing streetlights until a slice of fire poured into my brain, and now i am nothing but ashes, ashes; they don`t remember my name. . do you know what it feels like to be alone in a crowded room? have you ever read the world backwards? [because i have, i have, and it doesn`t taste like fields after the rain.] . and when i exhale into the air, the wisp of cigarette smoke spel