4: Lurking.Audrey saw her first ghost when she was ten years old.
It wasnt your typical, middle-of-a-dark-stormy-night setting. She wasnt lying in her bed, all alone in the pitch black, staring at the ceiling and shivering. She wasnt huddling in a corner, praying for her life, biting her fingernails and itching at the skin on the top of her hand. It was nothing like that.
Her mother had gotten bored that day, a lazy Saturday with the boys out of the house with their father, fishing, leaving the two alone. Audrey was drawing on a blank piece of paper, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, her long, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her mother appeared in the doorway with a sigh.
Hows about we go shopping.
She looked up, smiled, and nodded, closing her sketchbook and tossing it onto the mattress that was her bed. Give me a few minutes, she said, disappearing in the bathroom with a change of clothes. She pulled a comb through her knots, put her h
Anorexic Pretty BoyMy Anorexic Pretty Boy
My anorexic pretty boy
My fragile little broken toy
Always crying when alone
Waiting to be taken home
Eyes filled with ambivalence
Mind filled with the ignorance
Hands, they shake with fear and pain
Falling in the pouring rain
The heart of a doll which you possess
No love for another, you confess
I hold you in the bitter cold
As the darkness too grows old
My beloved little pretty thing
Oh how you mean so much to me
Never will I let you go
True love for you is all I know
I will protect you in the dark
Upon your heart I make my mark
Loving you, I do enjoy
My anorexic pretty boy
bottle in a jar.i'm going to adopt a boy with no hair and name him alexander luthor.
he will woo the girls in his class because his hands are soft as ashes and will distract from his ugly feet. his lips will curl with a fugitives will, but his voice will tremble and he will burn you up like straw.
he will require no explanation, just as the universe needs none as it travels through endless time. he will make your heart pound a cadence thatll tangle your veins. the trees will burst with green because he is a contradiction, breathing, playing, laughing, in his failing cellar.
he will not beg for time and call it a gift. frost will creep like the stealthy hands of thieves and lovers, reach around his shoulders, trail over his spine, move like the curious fingers against the softness of his parted lips and there will be something else there -- something darker than death.
and days like these will be timeless, masterpieces, a moment that will always exist. time could wither faces, blemish youth
Armageddon.She danced like tornadoes and rolling tides,
fire and lace and delicate things that break,
she danced like flooow and glowed as she moved.
She danced like sunshine and grape vines
winding up a windowsill, and something
made it seem like something in her hides-
secrets and impossible colors.
She danced like men on city streets,
danced with wings and petals on her feet,
and yo, man, she got drunk as fuck, and
she danced like a bitch in heat.
I saw her pass out last night.
Corrupted, breakable, and faded, I
saw her slip from heat and light,
and I wanted to look away.
I watched her wake up today,
heavy limbed and stiff and a head of clouds.
Shame clung like drifting shrouds and
I wanted to look away, but I watched her
She was beautiful, still,
even in depravity.
whimsical thingsshe can't sleep at night, so instead she watches the stars from her bed and writes poetry in the folds of her mind. she watches the sky change colour from darkest purple to a light blue and watches as the stars dissapear one by one. she feels redundant, watching the sunrise.
we're sitting on her bedroom floor and she's got a spoon and a lighter, a syringe and a lack of something to keep her happy. sometimes i think, when we're here, that she should write her poetry down. that she could escape some things. i never tell her out loud though; we just shoot heroin and fuck with the stars. we shoot heroin and fuck with ourselves until everything is perfect.
sometimes i think i love her. sometimes, i think i just love the way her skin is too pale and her hair too dark. other times, i think maybe it's the way her eyes are sometimes green but sometimes brown. or maybe i'm just waiting for the unpredictable, emotional girl to write me a poem.
i never thought to ask her what she does with t