here we go again.

this is a story
about a girl who
sucks at life
and at updating
but what does it matter?
it's an every day occurrence
and a soggy salad
never did anyone
no harm
yes harm
for words
with words
who, like people,
betray


so the girl who
sucks at life
and at updating
hopes you enjoy
her impromptu
failure.

a haiku for your reading pleasure.

sniffle sniff sniffle

sniffle sniffle sniff sniff sniff

I sniff am sniff sick.

achieving that sleepy-eyed look.

so valuable
so
rare
with the coffee and eyeliner and
metallic formulas
going into the efforts of aliveness
and appearing confident in such a way that
is less passively twisted, if possible

so vulnerable
the nights spent with the coffee
and the sitting in this chair, this
one right here
with the velvet brocade
the moon reflecting and blending
pale skin and ivory dressing gown into
a washed-out, drained pastel
image

the doe eyes
caught in headlights and alarm clocks
murmuring, sleight of hand, lashes dipping
forward
into a cup of all the expectations
smudged views and tripping feet
signal the courage to do what
must be done

the signature
namely
in highlight-like tangerine
the flavours and colours blend
when a tired mind tries
logic, that bane.
the look of the sleepless
the look of the successful
the look of the suffering.

affective.

her snow-boots trample through
piles of snow
stained in bitterness, and twinkling
ominously

her hand-knit gloves brush lightly
along evergreen branches
weighed down with this season’s
trials

her mouth exhales, a flushed O
emitting spirals of half-condensed air
clawing up towards the upper
atmosphere

her heart thuds dutifully,
perpetuating the music of her body
music which has been set on pause
as

her mind flutters carefully, frightfully,
a million miles away, or only four
to where smoke echoes her ragged breathing
and brittle anger shatters, slowly seeping
into the snow.

no one else's.

he
when he made the world turn
slowly, and
managed to push away
all her petty thoughts of hatred
he held her fragile hands
like teardrops, or
        weapons
and brushed them far away
from tracing lonely scars

tall
the grass they’d lose themselves in and
find each other again, only to
realise
that the other was different,
slightly changed, because
too many secrets can be hiding
in a field of wheat

bright
as the indigo outlaws they watched
dazzling, the sky, or another word
they never quite remembered
because there were more important
things to do
boats to catch
hearts to juice
beneath almond-tasting fireworks
bending quietly above picnic blankets

where
always a question of character
anyplace, just
far away
lady’s choice, see.
but Nowhere doesn’t quite make sense
and who could decide
between the boy with the
fireworks,
and her secret teardrop scars?

only whelmed.

shuffling the pages as
she gazes out across a tumultuous façade
she keeps wondering why he could never
drown himself:
he would always come up
                        gasping
choking on the words he’d already
spoken, and the thoughts he held tight
through the deluge

frankly, she thinks the coming storm
looks horribly calming, but
the azaleas think the purple-gray is wrong.
while raindrops freckle the
stone
she reasons that water must be
the angel of life and death:
she stomps out the reflections

too quickly, for if she had held
eyes toward the shimmering surface
seconds more
she would have seen him spinning
and not have flinched quite so horribly
when she turned, and
            he turned
to face the drenched, empty eyes
before the barely-afloat girl.

where we need.

what we’ve seen tumble

through the stars
and bounce off mirrors – no breaking
only bending
that motion out of the
corner of your eye –
you know you see it
you know it sees you

for ever is a long time
a twisted, tangled fragment of
eternity
but ever passes slowly
once hope
through mirrored glass
has fled

the waving crimson
your tarnished eyes
the hopeless encounters we’ve shared,
seemingly,
flow together in a haze of remembrance
a mixture of dusty tears
and bright blue readiness

the traveler may yet dream
while perhaps we fly onward
along our own mundane adventure
aching for a purpose
and reaching for a glimpse.