my poems :)

No One Does

Deranged little girl
Or a twisted woman?
She doesn't know which one she is.
Her only love doesn't care.
No one does.
He never did, does, or will.
Woe is her.
"Her" is me.
Oh, woe is me.

He ripped out my heart
And tore it up into bite-sized pieces
So that he could chew me up and spit me out,
Just like I deserve to be treated: like trash.
I gave him my life.
He gave me his fake "I love you, too"s.
He doesn't want anything to do with you.
No one does.
That's life... or death.
Dead inside, unfeeling.
Numb.
Cold.
Rotting.
Death is death however you look at it.

I sit and ask myself why I keep waiting for him.
The real solution hasn't been found.
The only answer I can come up with is
"I love him."
Too bad.
He doesn't love you back.
No one does.
He lies to you.
And you know it.
You know damn well that he does.
And you also know that you mean nothing to him,
Nothing at all.

You can make-believe that he might think about you.
But so can everyone else.
Everyone can pretend.
People have the right to dream.
Not me.



RAGDOLL
Hate; such a strong word for one so weak as I,
One as small and pitiful in demeanour,
Go on, brush your hand against my cheek,
Whisper breathlessly crude words of love,
Inspect the bruises, I'm your ragdoll, honey.

Love; such a strange word for one as cold as I,
One so dark and spiteful in demeanour,Go on, I can see you want to break me again,
Undress me with your eyes and then your hands,
Inspect your handywork, I'm your ragdoll, sweetie.

Satisfaction; such a temporary high for one as bold as you,
One as grand and authorititve in demeanour,
Go on, dominate me again, I know my place,
Take me once more, we're perfect for eachother,
Tell me what I am, I'm your ragdoll, Baby..




STATIC OBSESSION
She traced her finger around the blank television screen, watching the dust collect before her fingertip. Her hand curled into a fist that scratched against the cold glass of the screen as she sank back onto the footstool. Transfixed by the reflection of the stark white striplight hanging fly-filled and dusty overhead, the girl stared up at the small grey pane of glass, wishing the grey to turn into colours as she had seen once before.
She fell forwards onto her hands and knees, moving slowly as if to stay hidden in the centre of the barren room. Creeping, inching along the ground,
"I'm a tiger" she whispered into her blouse.
Sitting up on her knees, the girl pushed her hair back from her head and bit her lip. She unwound her hand from the folds of her sleeve and stretched up once again, this time to feel the back of the television. She remembered a time where it was warm and welcoming to the touch, she remembered resting her head against it to sleep, the smell musty and static.
Stroking the back of her hand down the smooth plastic, the girl sighed slowly, biting her lip harder until she could feel the skin pinch and let go.
Suddenly she threw her arms around the television, wishing to hold it against her tight, wishing to feel its warmth and colour against her pale skin.

She didn't see it fall.

She heard the sound of the glass cracking, splitting and splintering against the floor. Her mouth fell open in a sick convulsion.
The girl felt the familiar plastic, she felt it down, to where she felt the screen should be. The jagged pieces of the screen were harsh against her fingertips. She pushed off the outer casing, pushed it away, as far as her arm would stretch, a weak arm with pale hand curled against the floor.
She grabbed at the pieces, picking up as many as she could, and she held them tight in her hands, willing them to be pushed together, made whole again.

She blood ran quickly down her arms, staining her sleeves and bubbling out between her white-knuckled fingers.
She fell to lay in the remains, she thought of the colour and the warm.

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