the time keeper*
she had always been my beautiful backwards girl.
looking back, I can recall so many things about her, things that set her apart and made her different, like the way she would sit in the rain for hours at a time and just listen to the sound of the world falling apart around her. I worried she'd get sick, but she always ignore my calls for her to come in.
she once told me there was no need to worry. she was already sick, she said. hadn't I realized? I laughed and forgot, only remembering when it was too late.
sometimes we'd lay in bed and I'd count her ribs and trace patterns over her skin. when I'd counted the final one, she'd always say she was trapped inside her own body, stuck in a cage built of her own bones. maybe I held the key to the cage, I suggested. no, she told me. no one did. I smiled and ghosted my fingertips over the delicate curve of her spine, blissfully unaware of the darkness that shadowed her eyes.
I walked through the door one day and saw her naked on the ti
she dreams of the seaThere's a girl who likes to write and her name's Annabelle Lee,
she'll sit at her typewriter and dream of the sea.
By the flickering light of her candle's glow,
and the beat of her heart-steady and slow-
she'll delve through her thoughts, her hopes, and her dreams,
'til her army of words bursts at the seams.
She writes of the waves and their silver tipped crests
and she speaks of the birds in their seaweed-green nests.
The moonlight reflects in the roiling black waves
as the birds flutter forth from their mountainside caves.
Sharp cries break the silence and pierce through the air,
harsh sounds of anger, of fear and despair.
There's a girl who likes to dream and her name's Annabelle Lee,
she'll sit by her window and dream that she's free.
With the light of the stars in her storm cloud grey eyes
and the rain on her skin from the thunderous skies,
she'll wish and she'll hope and she'll think of the birds,
then she'll tell of their wings with her beautiful words.
She dreams of the world a
memoirs of a manI am the anchor at the bottom of the dark, dark sea, held down by my own heavy weight.
I am the rainy, fog covered streets at night, and I am the wind that pushes you back, back, back and spins you in the wrong direction. I am the flickering candle at your bedside table, dying a long, languid death until at last I burn myself out. I am the barely-there moon hanging in the star-studded sky, watching over you from afar, forever hidden behind midnight-black clouds. I am the unnamed presence- the ghost - that drifts always through your thoughts.
I am the shadow in the cracked glass mirror, looming over your shoulder and causing one, two, three tremors of unwelcome fear. I am the stray dog slinking throughout the labyrinth city- unwanted, unloved. Forgotten.
I am the picture with the broken frame, the ink smear on parchment that even time cannot erase. I am the love letter that you never read, locked away out of sight and out of mind. I am the something that you want
DreamerI had always been a dreamer.
Where others saw only emptiness, my eyes spotted the delicate details that had only ever been unnoticed and forgotten.
There is an irresistible something about outcasts that pulls us together, something that opens us to one another and allows us to truly see.
I was a dreamer, and so I never simply passed over the insignificant. Because I myself was insignificant, my eyes had been opened to visions that were otherwise hidden from view, concealed behind clever, oh-so-pretty facades whose elegance was much more evident to the untrained eye.
Life was a dream of a grand scale, a dream that was revealed to a chosen few and withheld from the unfortunate rest. Those who were too blind to see the dream chose instead to face reality and to grow up. The childish innocence of the imagination, however, could not be reclaimed once renounced.
There was a magic in the way a rainy day could change the way one saw the world. I could look through a veil of the falling
paper wingsshe is delicate, a fragile
doll made of paper-skin
and feeble, hollow bones.
her heart is wasted away,
empty of emotions and
empty of love.
but she has a heartbeat,
and though it's weak
it still pulses, nearly soundless.
she likes to think that
a cage could not hold her back,
that she has wings to fly.
her body is so frail and light
that it could be possible,
she says to herself.
but when you are surrounded
by the darkness, it is hard
to keep hope.
she is delicate, a fragile
bird with wings of paper feathers
that cannot fly.