i can't turn it off—

my mind,

this lamp,

my cellphone,

this city.

i can't put it out—

this cigarette,

my frustration,

this compulsion,

my desire.

ache keeps on aching,

discomfort becomes comfortable,

constant

i need to shut down

turn off

disengage

unplug

sever

i need to sleep

"Do you think the stars talk to the moon?" her voice was soft and I rolled my eyes. I swear I had heard her utter the same sentence a dozen times before.

"Maybe." I leaned on my hands. Gravel dug into my palms but I tired to ignore it. Her huff of frustration barely gave me a distraction. I started to pick the little stones from underneath my nails.

"Don't you ever wonder about anything?" The scrap of her shoes echoed in my ears as she stood. I closed my eyes before I could see her stand over me with her hands on her hips.

"No darling. Do you ever wonder about different things?" My voice rumbled. I wondered if she could feel the vibrations of it in her chest.

"Is it truly so bad to want answers to the questions you have?" She landed beside me with all the grace of a disgruntled cat. I could feel her dress brush my calf and I looked at her. The pout on her face was spectacular to say the least.

"Darling. Your questions never change. Even when you have the answer." I paused. Tapped my fingers against my thigh and shook my head, "They say it's the mark of insanity." I smiled at her delighted laughter.

"You know I relish in insanity." She giggled. I could imagine if we had chosen a cliff top as our perch she would be swinging her legs and my heart would be in my throat. I was immensely glad we were sitting on the side of the road.

We fell into a silence that laid itself like a blanket on our shoulders. I shivered a little under it's embrace. Goosebumps covered my skin and I wondered how she never moved as she watched the stars.

"Can truth lie?" For all that she was quiet and soft spoken, her question sent shivers down my spine.

"What do you mean darling?" I tried to smile, shake off her serious expression. She turned her eyes to me and tilted her head. There was no expression on her face.

"If I tell a truth can I still lie?" She asked.

"Maybe if you one of the Fae." I replied. The corner of her lips quirked in a half smile.

"I'm always truthful." She fell onto her back and spread out so her fingers reached for the sky, "But. I'm never honest."

"Oh? What do you mean?" This was something new, or at least something she hadn't touched upon in a long time.

"Uttering the truth means you're never telling a lie. But who's to stop me from speaking in truths that only apply at certain times. Is it a lie, even though it is still something true?" She paused, let the silence stretch and snap back into place while she chewed her lip, "Who knows when that truth may be true. I could say the stars talk to the moon. Watch her in absolute reverence and follow her existence as if they'll die without her influence. But, they are their own light when the moon only reflects the sun." She shrugged a bare shoulder.  "But who knows. Maybe the moon was the one to give the light out and the stars stole her light to keep themselves afloat." She hummed under her breath with a giggle.

"You've an interesting perspective darling." I muttered as I drew her into my arms. She brushed the top of her head against my chin and spread her fingers against my collarbone.

"I don't see how. It is what it is." Her lips turned downwards and I kissed her forehead.

"It is my truth." I watched her bob her head.

"But it's also mine." she said before she smiled with a brilliance that never failed to steal my breath away.

"Shall we stay here until the sun decides to grace this desolate place with his overbearing shininess?" She asked and I laughed.

"Of course darling. Anything you want."

I am a wanderer

that's what I am

wanderlust, stardust

I groped in the dark

there I sat

for multiple years

I forgot to count

I was running away

away and away

from an enemy

I used to be

from a dear friend

a concerned friend,

a friend who cared for me

They were looking for me

and I hid myself

I did not know

the hours

I did not know

days passed

Aha! It found me

lying prostate

on my back,

gentle strokes

to my ear,

soft whispers

of an ex lover

once loved

I cried, I cried

I wept in her arms

I soaked her skin

with wet tears

then she said,

the voice of an angel

"It's ok. I found you.

Again."

Another chapter writing

Another chapter together

with Passion.

And the stories

they told fell like

raindrops on a blustery

fall evening, even the

leaves listened intently.

-Babydoll Laments

You smell like apples and hang me with your laughter. There’s this absence rooted in me. Low-hanging fruit. Something to pick since produce dreamed of dangles out of reach. Bruise me with a gentle press of your thumb, with a simple word or two meant for something more pleasant on the eyes and teeth and with juice dripping off your chin.

The story of the tree comes to mind—giving more than she is herself. What is the moral in this moment? A sapling worthy of its cutting down, made fable and lore out of confession. Here, where I draw the oozing X, is your mark. Gouge me with your axe. Speak me to splinters when only moonlight is your witness; then share your acts and intentions with the world in order to become something presidential—and I, burning quietly in your hearth, made into a modern parable.

crimson.

she was bright carmine,

burning scarlet,

the kind that makes

you stop and look and

turn and think-

this is pure,

this is vibrant,

this is emotion;

the color of

her heart, all

the rich

passion bleeding through.

crimson.

red.

maybe it wasn’t

crimson, but it

was red,

deep and true and

real and right.

the color of

her heart- not

the crimson inside but

just the outside,

the shell of

who she was.

red.

magenta.

she was slowly

fading into labels of

pink and flowery and

fragile and girl;

she took her crimson and

her carmine and

her red and

made it what

they wanted to see,

sliding into the

niche they had

set for her.

magenta.

carnation.

she changed not

only her color but

her title too; sacrificed

her identity for

a crayon color,

the kind that comes

in every Crayola

twelve-box.

carnation.

rose.

she couldn’t be

exquisite carnation, so

she chose the commoners’

bouquet, beautiful

but pale and limp and

wilted at the edges;

let her petals

peel away-

he loves me, he

loves me not.

rose.

grey.

she was eroding away

at what little

was left of

her color, as if

pale rose

just wasn’t

blanched enough.

she was cool

grey now, wispy

ghost-like wraiths of

feeble life.

grey.

white.

bleached like a

wedding dress,

with a kind of

faded, dusty elegance,

like a jewel, tarnished

with time, a

girl who had

lost her luster

long ago,

vacant,

barren,

empty,

colorless,

white.

nothing.

nothing.

The cursor is blinking.

And I'm choking

On phrases lodged in my throat.

Bereft of hope,

My soul I would lay bare,

And expel the poison on these pages.

But the words won't rhyme,

So I swallow the bile

And force a smile that will never reach my eyes.

This venom has coated my insides,

And seeps out my pores.

Do not grow complacent with my lies,

For my touch has turned deadly

And I'm riding this spiral down.

There is no saving me now.

And that's okay.

Because I have always enjoyed the flames.