Somewhere between heaven and hell,

her mind’s cocooned to the confines of a purgatory.

Sweet honey teardrops roll from a glistening well

of existential heartache and gives unholy glory

to her woeful, dreary-laden confessions.

She’s drifting through an asphalt jungle

looking for the iron-runged ladder

that will carry her to an angel-infused fungal

dream where hazy faces grin insane, nothing matters.

Why do we feel so alone?

 

She hallucinates a fluttering house of cards

kaleidoscoping into ashes after carefully controlled doses.

Sleepless, she punches her pillow so hard

it screams labels onto her every neurosis.

Through the gaps in her teeth she croons

absurdities about her supposed beloved.

They switched masks, becoming ugly pantaloons,

abandoning stage to recklessly covet

her secrets and lovers.

They rob you when you’re drunk, and raw.

 

She never really liked her skinny bones,

but figured the red dirt would create a pretty contrast.

From the hollowed guts of life’s dark undertones

she cooked a feast and ate it with crass

observation of her closeted vanity.

Icy lockjaw phrases float on air

usually so thick with hopeless faith.

Time has cursed her throat with winter’s despair

so in the moonlight she bathes

to drown away guilty emissions of anxious thought.

It’s not your fault.

It’s not your fault.

 

She adored the way the sunlight and darkness

could never touch

and imagined she was somewhere in the middle,

pirouetting in gray rainbows.