kaitwho

I attribute my desire to find other hands to hold To your increase in absence, Even when you've assured me too many times that I'm yours. But each time I find a new boy To steal a jacket from when colds cuts in To steady me in skates on frozen ponds To get close enough to check my pulse; I pray that you stumble onto the scene Maybe even blame yourself. But only so that you go back to the boy Who sang senseless words that meant everything Who kept promises like a gun was to his head Who would never become who he is now.

I had it.  The ideal life, the movie-worthy existence, everything. Then one day, like a beloved childhood toy or a photograph that captures everything, I lost it.   When it first became clear to me that it was gone, I thought my life had all been ruined in an instant; I thought that someone had brought a gun to the glass that was my perfect reality.  But upon closer inspection, I realized that what I had been living was more like a brick wall.  Impressive at first, but cracked, having been built under the worst possible conditions.  And partial.  It hadn't stood a chance, really.&#

Oh darling Keep your hands on my hips And your mouth to my lips Oh pretend (for just this once) That you don't know more of me That my skin, you won't see Oh please, for just tonight, Can't we go back in time When I knew you were content With just being mine? Oh play along, It's just one night.

He met me for her - Became an actor to keep up with her dramatizations, Saw me after their last curtain call And ushered me into her front row seat Still warm from her; I'm warm for him. He loved me for her - Listened to my voice to hear her tones Whispered in my ear to hear her laugh Touched me to hear her moans - I was her lovely, unexpected understudy. He liked the reviews from the harshest critics And the standing ovations I gave him. But the star can't stay out of the spotlight Even when she's stumbling home Drunk off the big city life that spit her out, Falling into his typecast, male-lead arms Still warm from me; She'

When I'm with you I'm as awkward as mismatched buttons Discovered through whispers and false smiles; Plain as fallen wildflowers Lining sidewalk cracks after icy rains; Uncertain as strike anywhere matches In greedy, clumsy hands; Shy as foreign girls Lost among strange signs and sounds. But when I'm without you I'm as broken as jigsaw puzzles Praying for quick and eager eyes; Hollow as lightning-struck tree shells Missing rings to tell how long it's been; Forgotten art left in dusty studios Clay touched by the wrong hands; Me, Without you.

Phantom scoreboards hover in my peripheral clicking, flashing, counting down. I carelessly called every time-out, wasted every warning before I turned sixteen. There's no more breaks, no more breathers. Only penalty cards falling like leaves on the track or snow in the stadium. I whip around, disoriented by the Friday night lights. I've tried to catch a glimpse of the score but the visions are fleeting... Is it all in my head? ((they always told me it was a mental sport)) It's all a game to me despite harsh glares, and fill-in-the-blank chants with my name. When the clock counts down, will there be confetti? Or just the m

For the longest time, Lennox was the bane of my existence, as well as my best friend. I suppose this could all be traced back to my first day of first grade.  My family resided in the area's poor neighborhood.  Not because we were underprivileged, but because my parents saw it as a temporary house.  But when complications arose, and contracts fell through, it became our semi-permanent home. He lived next door.  Lennox Edwards.  He was poor.  He didn't like to talk about his parents, but since we lived in townhouses, we could hear the screaming through paper-thin walls.  

Hate me please. I'd appreciate it if you could leave a few voicemails Telling me I evoke a powerful emotional response - Sounding like a whirlwind; Breathy, tortured, and violent is best. Text me a few hundred times to make it clear (In my mind) That you would rather see me dead than happy. If it's not too much trouble, Drunkenly stumble up to my door Screaming At the top of your lungs - Some whore clinging onto your arm, Lipstick on her, her lipstick on you. Be malicious please. I need to know you feel something. I need to know there was a reason I couldn't love you.

His voice is static on a white noise radio My dial is broken, my speakers are shit I couldn't switch to FM even if I tried. His words are keys on a typewriter My ribbon is fading, the bell rarely rings But anyone can see what's left on the page. His love is scarlet high heels stored away My soles are unworn, my balance still off Too lovely for everyday wear.

From the corner of the room, I dared a glance up at her.  And in that precious moment, my world began to spin as I caught her gazing back.  Nervously, I diverted my eyes downward, glaring at my hands - the rough hands of a blacksmith, not the hands that would ever hold hers.  Never would these coarse fingers wrap around Estella's, with no intention of letting go - despite my most vivid day-dreams. But shouldn't the simple knowledge that Estella was looking back be enough?  I feared not, since no matter how soft her voice, how sweet her touch - I always sensed a disgust in her eyes.  Once, I had been silly enough to look deeply into them, and