The fascination of death and all things six feet under.

The wonder of the line between running and lying.

Where do I stop and where do I start? 

What makes a person dead?

Is it their lack of breath and heartbeat,

or is it the absence of dreams that truly kills?

To be dead is one thing.

To act is another. 

Who hurts more: the actor or the performer?

Some may run towards the end, 

and others run away. 

Why do I feel as though I dance between both?

Choosing the risk to protect home.

Feeling that addicting rush.

Walking that thin line between a hero and a skeleton. 

Do we die a second death when someone forgets?

Or are we always as dead as before,

no matter how people remember or forget?

The last thing people see of us –

will it be their favorite memory or their nightmare?

Or is it the body wrapped in silk, lowered into dirt…

Thoughts oddly quiet,

they mimic  the lack of breath that came before.

The peaceful piano is being drowned,

drowned by the bass of the beating heart,

overpowered by the rifts of reality crashing.

Hold on to me, tight as you can.

Close your eyes, find your ground again.

Not even I can return the tears to your bright eyes.

The melody, one of sorrow, sings through your veins.

The counter, the anger, crashes your gut.

The ‘I love you’ can almost be heard.

‘I miss you already’ is sung time and time again.

We both know that the ‘come back’ will go unanswered.

Please hold me, tight as you possibly can.

Close my eyes, put me into the ground.

I can no longer bring you to tears, my love.

In her dreams, she sees a woman,

Successful, brave, smart.

Everything she believes she isn’t.

In his dreams, he sees a man,

Everything he thinks he used to be.

Kind, open, sensitive. 

Once, they met at a young age,

the first day they met,

both too young to know anything besides love.

As they grew, they fell apart.

His wings were cut, cruelly, without mercy.

Her wings were burned, passion and reality clashing.

His hands were covered in scars,

her eyes shattered.

Was it their dreams that killed them, or the reality they had?

He became a dog, 

defensive of the sheep hidden within.

She, disguised as a crow,

is forced to hide her white feathers.

Now they cross paths.

They see each other every day,

yet no recognition is found as they pass.

She became everything she hated,

he became the wolf that tore him apart. 

I hate it when you look down on me. 

What do you see, leering down your nose?

Do you see someone who fights too much, 

or someone who gave up too much to earn your love?

Your shouts echo in my ears.

You may not touch a hair on my head,

yet I can still feel the bones snapping under your hand.

I hate it when you expect too much from me.

I am not you, nor my sisters nor brothers. 

I have fought for everything I am,

but I still crave your acceptance with every grain of my being.

Your cold eyes flash at me,

drowning me in your disapproval.

Are my dreams not perfect enough for your boasting?

I hate it when your coldness seeps into my skin. 

It freezes so cold, you could say it burns. 

My own flame can only stand so much before it fades,

ashes littering the ground.

Your fists against anything solid scares me.

You do not touch me,

yet the fear haunts me like a nightmare.

I hate it when you touch me, 

your hand feeling like a forest fire. 

However, I am drawn to the feeling of skin,

like the sea to the moon.

Your love is infectious, 

yet sometimes it feels forced.

Sometimes I don’t feel loved.

I hate it when you tell me “I love you”.

I know I should be loved,

but something murmurs in my head,

the voice saying, “Are you really someone to love?”

Your hellos are lovely, 

your goodbyes sad. 

The mix of blues and greens paint an ugly picture.

I hate it when we have to leave each other.

I love you,

but maybe this is how I say farewell.

So, while I can still breathe, chao.

Wasn’t it enough?

Crawling, bleeding, dying,

just to be pushed away again by your hands?

Fire pours from my arms,

legs too burnt to move,

heart too shattered to beat.

Wasn’t it enough, 

knowing that I was already broken

before you laughed and pushed me away again? 

Away, away to the same place where I can see myself.

Six years of age, barely surviving,

too afraid to know anything but pain and loneliness.

Wasn’t it enough? 

I know your love is false, misplaced. 

If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t put me back to the same place that destroyed me.

Pain was my constant, instead of your love.

Injuries were my home, instead of your arms.

But through everything I’ve called home, 

I have one thing to admit to myself and to you. 

I hate pain, but if it protects the ones I love, 

then I would gladly stab myself again and again 

just to see you happy.

Just to see you proud and smiling at me.

Just me.