knuckles and necklaces

She has hair that screams a thousand whispers
and knees that could impress an audience
A necklace that chokes beauty from her eyes
and socks that can conduct static from lightning bolts.


She remembers and chews her nails.
She paints her nails to prevent it but
she chews the polish,
and then she chews her nails.


Her hair lays flat, worn from the whispers
and she removes her necklace
to expose a soul that was broken by the world.

Reminders of human-ness

The heart that beats inside my chest reminds me of my life--my life of constancy, of monotony, of slow, rhythmic beating. The heart that pumps blood into my veins and sends streams of red down my scratched skin. The heart that trembles at the sight of misfortune and delights in its own wallowing misery. The heart that longs for love but avoids the thrashing damage of heartbreak.

I'm awakened to my sense of imperfection and humanity when I make mistakes; I stand steady until I'm alone. I know I'm human when I lay flat on my mattress and cry. Cry until the hot tears run down my face and down my cheeks and into my ears and down into me where their wet whispers tell me I'm imperfect and I'm awful and that Nobody likes me. Their salty solution stains my satin pillow and remind me of my faults.

i
           cant
                      tell
                              you
                                        how
                                                   much
                                                                  i would love
                                                                                         to  be
                                                                                                                a
                                                                                                                                   robot.
And who knows, I could be. But my inadequate lungs try their hardest to keep up with me, and my arms can't hold my heartdesires. My chest rises without fail. My brain never stops talking, but can never compute.
I know I can't possibly be a robot when I attempt to close my eyes and instead hear taunts and fantasies from an unorganized novel that will never be published.

I hope, I desire, I crave. I feel, I wait, I want. I hate bad endings and I hate being subject to servitude. I hate, I detest, I feel contempt. I taste, I discover, I create. I long for originality but I copy and paste. I wonder, I learn, I am lost in confusion. I make mistakes and I crash the car and I burn myself and cut myself and bruise myself and burn and cut and bruise everyone else.

I tempt.

*Alice