• 10/6/03

    In the shadows of my room, snakes slither.
    Over paper and binder, under blankets and fear.

    Come to me.
    Bite my soul.
    Show me that I live.

    Time and time again I write these sadistic and bloody poems, but still no one sees.
    These poems aren’t about just me.

    They’re about the people who’ve hurt me.
    In the form of my fears they hurt.

    The ghosts surround me, not in compassion, but in fear.
    They fear the swirling of nonexistence.

    They fear the jaguar deep inside.
    She claws at my long gone soul to get out.

    The only thing holding her back…
    I won’t.
    I can’t.

    I can’t hold her back.
    The snarling, the growling…it’s too much to handle.

    They’re not bitten.
    I’m bitten.

    Not by teeth, nor by virus.
    But by desire to feel the life slither from this shell.

    You people…you want to help me?
    No, you don’t.
    You want to pity.
    But I don’t need your pity.
    You need my pity.

    In the shadows of my room, chsos lurks.
    Sweet, undeniable, putrid chaos.
    I’m not what I seem.

    You know, the way to get by in this world seems to be anorexia and the ‘good book’.

    But where was this so called “god” when I was visited by the devil in silence?
    He spoke such words of promise and the words melted off his tongue like ice cream on a hot summer day.
    He promised me no more pain, and I believed him.
    He touched me like no other human has.

    Which brings me back to what you need to survive in America.
    Thin, lean bodies and locked up souls.
    Each chance he opens his hands and offers something sweet, like greedy children, we take.

    Flash a smile girls, show the male how happy we truly aren’t.
    The wider the smile, the more the cage is shrunken.

    I’ve personally have nothing against god.
    And I don’t think that I do.

    You can smile at me all you want, cause I know the minute I’m gone you’ll hate me.
    And that’s just fine with me.

    I don’t care.
    I’m still pulling myself from my grave.
    My tombstone glittering with cobwebs and dried blood.
    Dirt and grass are pushed aside as I crawl from my grave.

    Eyes seeing something more mystical and enchanted…covered in thick black blood.
    My brown eyes shimmer, the wind blows.

    You ghosts still stand there, shivering in fear.
    I could hurt you…but my hands are bound.

    Bound to your life and souls.
    You grant me life where death ruled dominantly.
    But for many years, you covered me.

    Saving me from the silence that still haunts my footsteps.
    I’ve lost my bite, scared of releasing Her, the jaguar.

    You wonder in quiet whisper and sheltered talk, when and why.
    You treat me like nothing, like a soulless burden.
    I give you second images unworthy of your betrayal.

    My guide, my muse, my whisperer;
    You stand behind me, constantly forever.
    In the guise of an angel, a dark god and an earthen prince.
    So here I’ll stand in the witness of the stars, drinking blood as its life moves down my throat.
    Dreaming of my rebirth once again.

    So many years, unbitten, clinging to winters’ chill, my exposure feels like a vampyre kiss.
    Deathless ghost…

    © October 6, 2003
    Typed: June 12, 2010