Whispers carry the dreams

that were developed

in locked bathroom stalls

in tangled locks of shedding hair

in the food buried deep in trash cans

and in kisses sent across thousands of miles

that never reached the deadened insides

of another caged girl.


The girl who gleams with the tears of others

and who shimmers dully of repressed desires.


Untethered from her post

the girl glides free from the weight of secrets

that dissipate as she disappears

leaving only still remains

of forgotten girls,

pierced by their own bones.


Pretty Little Girl

I know of a pretty little girl.

Her porcelain skin etched to mark

the tally of her sins.


I know of a pretty little girl

who peeled off her skin

and sewed it back tighter

just so her bones would show.


I know of a pretty little girl

who swallowed a flame

to burn the fat from within.


I know of a pretty little girl

who stapled her eyes shut

so she couldn’t see the temptation.


I know of a pretty little girl

who didn’t think she was so pretty.


I know of a pretty little girl

who destroyed the pretty

destroyed the innocence

and destroyed the girl

so she could become

a skeleton.

Ravenous Roulette

Everyone’s heard of Russian Roulette.


The clicking of the barrel as it spins.The awed silence of the crowd as the gun is raised. The snap as the safety catch disengages.


Then the pressing of the trigger ­ a moment where everything could go horribly wrong. Laughter rises, clapping, betting with one’s life is an amusing ordeal.


The gun passes hands, the second one places the cold gun against their temple. Then a third, and a fourth. Again, and again. Luck being their only hope.

I didn’t have such luck.


Then again, I didn’t play Russian Roulette. I made a bet with something else. Something much more dangerous than a loaded gun. Where no luck will grant you a quick death.


For me, when I lost the game, it was much more painful. It started with the dizziness, which began to lace the edges of my vision. An embroidery to the pain which soon blossomed inside.


Mind constantly torn in two, hatred pouring out from every sweaty pour. Heartbeat racing, stopping, then jumping back with the rest of a tortured body.


I decayed slowly, from inside out. The mind games destroyed my sanity first. Then went my outside. Dry, pulsating blue veins appeared on my skin. An ugly pattern, creeping across me, encasing me, keeping me from shattering into pieces.


“There goes the snowangel,” they used to say. A heap of bones, blue­lipped and silent. The personification of death.


Their stares burned into me every day, until finally, my organs gave out.

It was a quiet day, my body resting in the white hospital bed. Wilted roses sat on my bedside.


My heart just kept stopping. They could do nothing.


And I’d finally found out that I’d lost the game.


Silhouette Girl

The girl wept. Her body, a mere silhouette, shook with the anguish that lay trapped beneath her porcelain skin. The oval drops glimmered in the pale light as they slid down her freckled face. Wisps of dark golden strands of hair caressed her cheek before being swept away by a trembling hand. Her lips parted slightly in a small sigh, expelling a hot breath of air that spiraled upwards in the freezing room. She knew she’d brought this upon herself, but it was too late to change. Her life was set. Her destiny was clear before her, unclouded in her usually murky mind.
A boy, with straight jet black hair and a grim expression stood by the door, his ears catching the faint echo of her sobs. He fingered with his worn belt as he listened, his face growing dark with the turmoil of emotions rising within him. As the minutes ticked by he slowly started to turn away, before heading back down the hall.
The girl, oblivious to have being heard, curled into a tight ball on the muted blue colors of her bed and shut her eyes, trying to make the thoughts go away. Peace, silence, that was all she wanted, all that she had ever wanted since this had started.
She was back again. That ghostly silhouette of what would be hard to consider a human form. All sharp angles, bones protruding. So this is what beauty has done to the world, the man thought quietly to himself as he waited for the bus. The girl only a brief thought in his crowded mind, a second glimpse into a world of suffering. Then she was gone once again, forgotten. A whisper from the wind, that brushed ones senses, then moved on. No one would notice, savor a thought from the business man, when the girl stopped coming. And then he would board his bus, and continue home, his world still revolving, when the girl’s had already stopped.

If Only I’d Told

If only I’d told.

The memories are still so fresh. The feel of chapped lips brushing against my sunburnt ear. The soft exhaling of hot breath which tickled my cheek. Her voice, raw and hoarse, as if she’d been screaming. The sweet scent of mint carried on her breath which did not properly conceal the stench of something long rotting.

If only I’d told.

I can still hear my own voice promising her I wouldn’t tell. Her azure eyes holding my own, somehow portraying dignity and calmness when I knew that she was broken inside. “You’re the best,” she’d told me. A chunk of something that had been chewed and swallowed was caught in a strand of her hair, my eyes couldn’t break away from it dangling there. If only I’d taken a closer look at her face. Those hollow cheeks, deadened eyes, and soft coating of fine hair over every inch of her body. Yet I didn’t. I couldn’t notice anything else. Wouldn’t.

If only I’d told.

Two hours ago she’d been alive. Her deathly dry hand, blue veins throbbing against her coating of transparent skin, holding my own. I should have known something was wrong when she told me that I’d been the best friend she’d ever had. Yet I couldn’t see straight. I still saw that same girl from a year ago ­ happy, healthy.

If only I’d told.

Maybe things would have been different if I’d told. Maybe then I wouldn’t be staring at the picture I’d took of her when she’d come over earlier. A smile laced her sunken face, clearly not real. Her back was hunched. She was withered, as if a hundred years pressed down upon on her. A tight tank top revealed her emaciated body ribs, and white shorts showed off her frail legs. “So people can remember me when I was at my best,” she’d told me. I’d been so confused. Now I’m not.

After all, with death, comes abhorrent clarity. But still…

I can’t help thinking..

If only I’d told.