tell me, my love,

was it fun to see me bleed for you

all for you for your love

tell me, was it amusing,

to see your paint

red and blue and red and purple

all over my body your canvas

the devil kneels behind you

fingers entwined

your words blacker than your blood

and then red, red, red, all i see is red

on me on you

on the carpet on the

walls so thick no one

hear my screams

until...until...

it's too late

take me

my lungs my skin my

heart all yours my love ALL YOURS

THAT'S ALL YOU EVER WANTED, ISN'T IT

TAKE THEM WITH YOU

RID ME OF THESE SINS THESE MISTAKES THESE

FEELINGS I ONCE CALLED LOVE NOW DROWNED

BY THE GUILT

RED AND BLUE AND RED AND PURPLE

RED AND BLUE AND RED AND PURPLE RED AND BLUE AND

RED AND PURPLE

RED AND RED

AND RED

AND

RED

my love

your phantom

touch

all over me all over

the body

you once

painted your love on

i can feel your

caress

your cold, dead

breath

on these hands

tainted

with blood.

your blood.

tell me, my love

you remember, don't you

that look in your DEAD DEAD soulless eyes

tell me those last words you uttered

"why do you keep playing the victim?"

so you’ve backed me into a corner,

now what?

i’ll lunge at you and shatter your bones.

Yes?

Did you expect me to tear through the walls behind me?

you laugh and laugh, why does it tear a hole of despair in me?

i force my fists into your face and leave a painting of red

and black and purple

i can feel your bones fracturing

but these tears don’t stop and i don’t know why

i grasp your shoulders desperately

shaking, screaming,

“LOOK AT ME. CAN YOU SEE ME?

“I CAN'T FIND MYSELF, HELP ME FIND MYSELF.”

i reach into my chest to rip out my heart that’s been hurting

for so long

FOR SO LONG

to find

i ask you what i am and you reply

with a smile that kills me.

“You’re this this and this.”

how can you answer so confidently?

i ask without asking.

“hey, i need to get something off my chest,” i say.

“sure!”

then you sew my lips shut.

okay, i get it.

i’m just a stupid useless child and i understand nothing.

i’ll drop to my knees

and bruise my forehead.

does this make you happy?

i’ll hold your hand even

though it burns through what i am.

does this make you forget the wounds on my face?

no?

i’ll become everything i never fucking was for your sake

lose myself in myself so you can pick and choose

the parts you want me to be

i’ll rip open my fucking guts and you can take my lungs and blood and

feelings, doesn’t matter.

doesn’t matter.

and then finally i shatter into a million pieces because

i don’t know i don’t know

you stand right there and i think you see me

for the first time

and i get so hopeful because maybe

maybe maybe maybe

JUST MAYBE

you’ll finally see the red lines you left on my wrists

you see me

you finally see me

but then you tilt your head

and you

walk away.

How many times have you heard the words, "Everything's going to be alright"? Sometimes with a pat on the shoulder, a hollow speech, and a camera you can’t see?

No matter you want to hear those words right? Want someone to hold you and speak grave words so casually they eventually become nothing but vowels pieced with consonants, sounds our vocal cords make through their vibrations, noise that the people of the past decided meant something, right? Wouldn’t you like that to be real?

But what do they mean, really?

Because how can you say that everything will be fine, if you don’t understand anything? How can you stand on shore, waving to someone drowning, telling them to “just breathe”? Ripping the eyes out of someone’s sockets, and tell them to appreciate how beautiful the world’s colours are? Drive a knife into someone’s throat, twist the veins around your steel blade, weaving a tapestry of your liking while they stare at you with cold, unmoving eyes until they choke to death?

What was the point, anyway?

You can lie to me all you want.

But nothing is alright, and nothing will be alright.

People live their entire lives on autopilot. Going about their routine lives, nothing more than obedient puppets. Tell me honestly, have you ever paused, gone into your head, and asked, “Hey, why am I doing this? Why am I even here? What’s the point of all this?”

We spend a quarter of our lives sitting in a classroom, and for what? So many, too many kids stew in frustration, resentment, hatred of the whirling fans and fluorescent lights and the white shirt they put on in front of the mirror every day.

Bullying and unfairness and injustice, a system of meaningless education but no morals.

Why are we judged for the way we look, something we can’t control? Why are we defined by the people around us, when we’re all here, for ourselves? Why is our world set in a way that what we have is never enough, and what we don’t is always better?

But the better question is, why do we exist? WHY DO WE LIVE?

tell me, my love, was it fun

to see me weep to see me bleed

for you

all for you for your love

tell me, was it amusing, to

see your paint

red and blue and red and purple all over

my body your canvas

fingers entwined with the devil, sly

smile full of pearl white teeth

your blood blacker than your words

and then red, red, red, all i see is red

on me on you

on the carpet on the

walls so thick no one

hear my screams

until...until...

it's too late

take me

my lungs my skin my

heart all yours my love ALL YOURS

THAT'S ALL YOU EVER WANTED, ISN'T IT

SO TAKE THEM WITH YOU

RID ME OF THESE SINS THESE MISTAKES THESE

FEELINGS I ONCE CALLED LOVE

NOW DROWNED BY THE GUILT

your phantom touch

all over me all over

the body you once painted your love on

i can feel your caress

your cold, dead breath

on these hands tainted with blood.

your blood

you remember don't you, my love?

that look in your dead dead soulless eyes

those last words you uttered:

"why do you keep playing the victim?"

tell me, my love, was it fun

to see me weep to see me bleed

for you

all for you for your love

tell me, was it amusing, to

see your paint

red and blue and red and purple all over

my body your canvas

fingers entwined with the devil, sly

smile full of pearl white teeth

your blood blacker than your words

and then red, red, red, all i see is red

on me on you

on the carpet on the

walls so thick no one

hear my screams

until...until...

it's too late

take me

my lungs my skin my

heart all yours my love ALL YOURS

THAT'S ALL YOU EVER WANTED, ISN'T IT

SO TAKE THEM WITH YOU

RID ME OF THESE SINS THESE MISTAKES THESE

FEELINGS I ONCE CALLED LOVE

NOW DROWNED BY THE GUILT

your phantom touch

all over me all over

the body you once painted your love on

i can feel your caress

your cold, dead breath

on these hands tainted with blood.

your blood

you remember don't you, my love?

that look in your dead dead soulless eyes

those last words you uttered:

"I love you. i forgive you."

Hey Celaena,

I guess you were right. You do give people falsified hope, now that I think about it. I’m so confused. What were you trying to do? You acted all flustered when I complimented you. (Were you really?)

And when I told you I liked you, you hid your face and smiled so beautifully it made my heart ache. Perhaps you smiled because you thought it was a joke. (Or perhaps it was merely my eyes playing tricks on me.)

Honestly, if you never told me you were flattered when I said you looked pretty, I would never have even hoped to be liked (loved) by you.

Perhaps I misread the signs. Perhaps I thought you liked me back just a little. Perhaps the fact that you actually contemplated dating me for a heartbeat instead of outright rejecting me also gave me a bit of hope.

Oh, you dreamt of me last night? It doesn’t mean anything, right? Holding my hand so tight and not letting go; falling asleep on my lap. It doesn’t mean anything, right? (I wish it did.)

I wish you liked me back.

But… you know what? Even if we don’t date, I think… I think I’m happy knowing that at some point in time, I was somewhere in your heart. Not as a friend, but as something… a little more.

~ Love, Avery

I wanted to be able to grow old with you. To watch our children grow into charming princesses and princes. To hold your small hands as the years slowly steal our youth away.

But you left me. You left me all alone with nothing but the remains of an empty promise: I’ll come back later, when you’ve calmed down.

You never came back.

And the last time I ever saw your face was when you were laid to rest on that cold table, the sheets covering the blood. Your broken body.

The day you jumped, was the day my world came to a screeching halt.

Like the grass in a field that was once so full of life has suddenly hit a drought. Because of the drought, a fire started. I tried my best to put it out. Tried my best to save those beautiful memories, but because of the fire, they became charred.

Blackened and full of toxic smoke, those are my feelings now.

I can’t seem to remember the times when everything was so bright and simple. When you loved me to the point where you would die for me. But...that was the problem, wasn’t it? You loved me.

So much that when I told you to die for me, you did.

I was on the verge of death before I met you. My boyfriend had cheated on me with my sister and I got kicked out of his house the very next day. I lost all motivation to live. My dreams for law school dissipated. My whole future fell apart.

And then came you. From your oversized sweater to your beautiful brown eyes, I loved everything about you.

I loved you.

But I didn’t want to admit it. I couldn’t admit it. How could I, when loving you in itself was a sin?

I told myself you were just a friend. Even when my heart beat a little faster everytime my eyes met yours. Even when I felt such giddiness everytime you complimented me. Even when I felt such intense jealousy when you started dating someone else.

Even when you broke up with him just to confess to me.

I couldn’t accept your feelings, even when you told me you loved me.

“I would never forgive you if you make me go down the path of sin. I must never love a woman.”

Your hands fell to your sides as I pushed you away. You nodded your head. You said you would come to terms with it.

A year passes.

My feelings for you didn’t go away. But you seemed to have moved on.

That day in late June, you ran out of your room with such joy sparkling in those caramel brown eyes and said with such hope in that songbird-like voice of yours, “I think someone likes me. Should I accept her feelings?”

I gripped you by the shoulders and screamed at you.

“I thought you loved me! You said you loved me! And just when I think I might be okay with loving you, you move on to someone else. What do I do then? Tell me! What do you want me to do?!”

I could feel your body trembling as you cowered in front of me.

“You said you would never love me back. I can’t pin after you forever, can I?”

“You don’t love me. You never did.”

“You’re wrong. I do love you. I love you so much I would die for you.”

The overwhelming rage that ripped into me when I heard those words was what made me snap.

“Then die. Go die for me if that’s what will make you happy!”

I didn’t know back then. I didn’t know your parents had just gone through a divorce. I didn’t know you were still being bullied in school. I didn’t know you were struggling to find the will to live.

I didn’t notice the scars on your wrists you tried so hard to hide. I didn’t notice you cried yourself to sleep every night. I didn’t notice anything.

I had pushed you away when you needed me the most.

I was wrong. You didn’t leave me. You were always there for me.

You guided me into the light, even when my monsters pulled you into the shadows. You pieced me back together, even when my broken shards cut you open every time you came close. You filled me with so much happiness, even when it drained you of every last drop. You told me you loved me, even when I shoved that love back down your throat, choking you, suffocating you.

I abandoned you.

I killed you.

If you were still alive, you’d be sixty today. You’d be by my side, with our boys and girls all grown up with their own little boys and girls. You’d be beautiful, even your silver hair and the wrinkles on your skin. You’d hold my hand, and tell me you love me with such conviction in those eyes.

Or maybe we would have parted ways years ago. Maybe you would have found someone who was actually worthy of your unconditional love and your pure soul. Maybe you would have had children of your own, and they would look like you, with your brown eyes, with your golden brown hair.

But after all that, I still love you.

...well...it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

Silence

was what our teacher shouted, when we were 7

all in the room gulp, everyone quietens

we weren’t princes and princesses, it was apparent

Silence

was what filled the room, during our first exam

sweat trickles down our foreheads, hands tremble in fear

the clock ticks, everyone as quiet as lambs

Silence

was something at 10 we couldn’t quite understand

we listen to the books, to the papers, to the adults

around our throats, a hand tightly grips

Silence

was what came, receiving those papers marking you as a failure

"it’s not all about the grades, mom. that’s not the only thing that matters right?"

they see the number, they frown, they put you through more torture

Silence

as concepts are explained, we absorb them like sponges

no questions, no doubts, no debates

just pack up afterwards and go for your lunch

Silence

was something at 12, we begin to comprehend

we don’t talk back, we don’t get a say

we listen to their every command

Silence

was something we were taught, from the very start

the syllabus goes on, colour seeps through the cracks

suffocated by words, dreams no longer set us apart

and the rainbow veil of hope, now a grey tattered cloth

silen⎯⎯⎯

Shh, she’s coming. Quick, back to your seats...

“Are you still in pain?"

The bar's neon sign had been a part of this area of town for as long as anyone could remember. This was a desolate part of the city; only one main road ran through the mountains of ashes covering the grey and bleak wasteland surrounding them, separated from train tracks by a line of telephone wires.

Ever since the industrialists had come to the ancient marshes the town was built on, filling this spot of swampland in with soot, street sweepings, and other garbage until it had become little more than the city dump, the neon sign had burned its question to anyone walking by.

It belonged to Wilson's, a dimly lit bar and popular stopping point for the renegades of the Dock district that had changed ownership from an armoury to a brewery to a flophouse before becoming the cantina it was now. At least, the bar and its sign had been around for as long as she could remember, and she had lived here her entire life. She saw the sign every day, on her way to school in the city, and then coming home from the construction job she worked in the ash fields to help pay the bills.

Every day, it blazed a cool menthol blue existentialist question to her, with only one word - PAIN? - in a separate, warmer orange, as if the bar was offering her a serving of pain just behind its doors. But there was no pain to be had at Wilson's. Just the ever-reliable comfort of liquor. That was where she found herself now, wrapped in its warm embrace of a buzz, the sole occupant of a window table meant for two.

Outside, the sun had long set, and the shadows that had grown as she had left the job site and walked here had taken over the landscape. A half-drunk ginger-beer-and-rum cocktail sat on top of the doodling journal that she carried everywhere with her, the condensation from the ice inside leaking down the sides of the glass and leaving a moisture stain on the composition book's cover.

The bartender had brought her tab over a few minutes ago, but she didn't want to pay it just yet. She wasn't looking forward to the long walk home in the pouring rain. Her sweatshirt had become soaked already, and she could feel how damp her hair was without even touching it. And what was waiting for her at home, anyway? An alcoholic and abusive father. A spineless mother who let him hit her. A baby brother too young to understand any of it, but old enough to already have breathing problems from secondhand smoke.

She looked out the window at the sign again, the constant stream of raindrops trickling down the windowpane slightly blurring the neon colours together. Sometimes she would get an irresistible urge to throw a rock right at the damn thing.

"Are you still in pain?"

You have no fucking idea.

The boy looking out the window is stuck in his head again. He tries to forget all the sleepless nights while his father was drinking and his mother was crying behind locked doors. His sleeves are long, even in the summer. His eyes are scary and dark and full of hate; kind of like a prison. But no one notices the scars on his wrists that he hides or the messy uncut hair. No one notices until it's too late...

The singing girl puts on a show so that people can't see what's really going on in her head. Every day she wears a mask to cover her pain and only lets her tears wash away the facade when she's alone. No one ever notices how poor her family actually is and how much hope she has to become a great singer one day. But just like her poverty, no one ever notices her talent - maybe because it's her talent to act like everything's alright...

The boy with headphones on is tired of being told that he’s wrong. He’s stopped speaking up for himself, because no one ever listens to him anyway. He blames himself for everything that goes wrong, but the only person noticing is the voice in his head, telling him that he would be better off dead...

The girl doing her makeup has a perfect life. She has great friends, a wonderful family, a sweet boyfriend. She's rich. She’s pretty. That's the most important thing for her. Being pretty; having control. He's proud because she didn't eat breakfast again. He tells her she can only be pretty when she's hungry. But no one ever notices her pale skin or the bony legs. The only one noticing is the mirror...

The boy writing in his notebook is actually writing to his sister who lies in a hospital a twelve-hour drive away. She's gotten into an accident. The doctors aren't optimistic. So he writes a letter to her to ease his mind. But no one notices how each and every single stroke kills him more and more on the inside…

The girl clinging to her boyfriend's arm actually does notice something. He flirts with everyone but her. She can't believe it - refuses to believe it - even though she knows he cheats on her. Countless times, she has turned a blind eye to the bras and makeup that don’t belong to her, trying to hide the truth from herself. She does everything she can for him to love her again, but it's never enough. He never notices; no one ever notices the hurt burning in her chest...

She's annoying, the boy with the headphones thinks about the singing girl.

She's way too clingy, the singing girl thinks about the girl next to her who everyone calls “bitch".

He looks like he’s doing drugs, the girlfriend thinks about the boy at the window.

He's probably writing some stupid poem again, the boy at the window thinks about the worried brother.

She probably never had any real problems, the worried brother thinks about the pretty girl.

He’s not fun. He never talks to anyone, the pretty girl thinks about the boy with the headphones.

And she’s there, sitting in the middle, breathing in their dark, scary thoughts. She hears them, their voices. She hears them all. Their pains, their sorrows, their anger. Their cries come in waves, and tonight, she’s drowning.