When There's So Much Light, Why Do I Feel So Dark?

Steel-toed anger and volatile lungs that are too large for my body and I can't seem to breathe so I'll have me another cigarette until the swelling goes away to the point where I can take in the dank air again of this private property prison that I seem to have the keys to but just don't have the arms to reach the lock. Steel bar'd shadows decorate my face and pale and shaking I had that glimpse of what the outside was like, of what happiness was like and now I'm here again, scared to leave this cell that I built with my own hands my own smashed and broken hands with dislocated bones and agony and this is where I am most comfortable, swimming in the crushed glass of the lights that I smashed to be able to reach the world where Wonderwall was her everything and she was my goddess but that's over now so the glass is still broken and I'm still here swimming, but that was something important that shouldn't have been cut and I'm not sure how much longer I can stay in this glass before my blood goes stale and worthless.

Cliff-diving off the edge of my sanity into the budhist reflection pool of sleep that in it's mirror surface I've always seen my dreams so I'll break into a thousand pieces in a cacophony of Nyquil Ambien and Alcohol until the point where every moment is a waking dream and I will only have to see the things that I want to see. Sell my soul for a Nicotine fix the gross perversion of my mild aversion to recreational drugs during the week. Sudden poetic reimbursement for the absence of my silver tongue that walked away with my lover and left me bereft and unable to speak unable to find the soul I had sold to be with her. Turns out it was in the gutter by the road; she hadn't wanted it after all.

Throw myself up the stairs to trip into black and white where it's a world of grays and yet even in the dusky scenery she shines bright enough to cauterize my eyes of all the illusions I create.

I'll be making more than my mother in one year.

Chugging down the antifreeze like cool clean water trying to clean my veins of the past I've tried so desperately to forget but the water is laced with nothing but those memories and I can't seem to escape and I'm back at the beginning drowning from the politics and the sensitivity to touch that I still can't seem to shake and why, why are you so afraid to let yourself love me and why, why won't you let me give you the world and why, why can't you see that I want nothing more than to make you the happiest woman on the face of this planet?

What does the rest of the world have that I can't seem to see, can't seem to grasp? Was it the one day I missed because I sluffed, because I had strep throat, because I traded in my virginity for lust and a sense of sensuality that I can't seem to control and I'm not charming anymore and did I sell the only part of myself that anyone ever found attractive when I was drunk? I don't think you know what sort of chest-piercing heart-wrenching vocabulary you have at your disposal and I wish desperately you weren't so eager to use it on me because as pugnacious and protective and defensive as I might come egregiously across I don't have enough words in my world to be able to rebuild what you've broken, what you're breaking and I don't have the strength to do what you are asking of me so let me sleep, let me crash through the ice and plunge into the snow cold intrepidness of future perfect mental harmony balanced on the brink of every roof of every city and struggling at the base of every lake in every country and despite the money clenched in my hands I can't save myself. I can never save myself.

There isn't a mirror in this world that could tell me who I am.

I've smashed every reflective surface I've ever come across trying to break into a world where my inner qualities reflect and accentuate my outer qualities and I guess I'm just an antique in a gift shop, a nice idea that no one ever really wants despite their earlier vocalizations. Not meant for this time. Not meant for this place. Not meant for this world. It takes a certain type of person to appreciate me and even then, it's only appreciation and never love. Never desire.

Silly Universe, you made me an anachronism.

Silhouetted against the twilight sky and there is the cityscape before me, blazing lights and with the right photo filter we can make them in the shape of heart and how poetic would it be, to see me balanced on the precipice of a city of love, so close to being apart of it but can only join through sacrifice of self but until then better than it, risen above it and perpetuated as an independent goddess of financial stability and beautiful words? The orchestra will strike a tune of crunchy synthesizers and intricate scales of melancholy and desperation with a voice so laced with regret it bruises beneath your eyes just to think of of it. Bittersweet belligerence and bipolar bereftitude and the rise and fall of your sleeping breathing peaceful chest encompasses every swing in my mood I'll ever have. Atrophy catastrophe last night and I tore my eyes out and replaced them with the glassy surface I skimmed off the cool rejections you hand to me on a daily basis.

~Alisa