I feel the press
Of your keys
Leaving bruises on my skin
As you type the words
That flit across my screen,
Dripping poison
That eats away at my flesh.

I wear the spit
From your lips –
Soaking my wounds
As you scream the words
That slam into my head,
Crushing my sanity and
Creating voids in my brain.

I taste the fury
Of your lies
Coating my lungs with ash
As you whisper sweet-nothings
That tear at my soul,
Flooding my heart
In seas of unshed tears.


Porcelain Doll


Photo Credit: axlvaldez on deviantart

There you sit with your porcelain skin,

Mocking me with stolen beauty,

Soundlessly witnessing the macabre scene

From your lofty perch.


I want so much to make you like me –

To mar your perfect flesh

With crisscrossed scars;

To shorn your hair

And paint your lips

A fiery red.


But I can’t.


I won’t.


So, you just sit there with your glassy eyes,

And watch me slip into this




Neither of us saying a word,

But both silently screaming.



Photo Credit: Murderess-of-Shalott

They call it a vacation.

I call it a hiatus

From the fake,

The miserable,

The unbearable moments

That chip away your sanity

With each tick,

Each tock of a clock.


They call it time off.

I call it a break

From the sick,

The mundane,

The “did that just happen” seconds

That interrupt your thoughts

With intensity,

With fury and violence.


They call it a sabbatical.

I call it intermission

From the world,

The reality,

The everyday struggle of making decisions,

With responsibility,

And choices of the deadly variety.


They call it a sin.

I call it peace.