Adaptation

It's cold here,
in my pseudo-skin.
I hear the walls cracking,
crumbling away;
the hands of the clock smashing,
shattering glass;
white noise crashing down like a waterfall,
tossing about pieces of the wreckage at the bottom
with nonchalance.
I feel wave after wave roll in,
hastey and impatient:
I'm waiting to become one of them.
With my eyes glazed over,
facial features askew in a grotesque arrangement...
the left limb telling the right not to look,
the head telling the lungs they're not drowning...
They're not drowning...
and in the event that they are, indeed, drowning
and in the event that they are, indeed, on their last leg
and in the event that they are, indeed, out of breath,
tired, suffocating, collapsing, struggling to survive...
and in the event that they are, indeed, drowning,
the head will tell the gasping lungs not to fret,
not to panic,
it's all in the head.

ghost child

sometimes i miss it--
waking up to see you standing there in my room,
surrounded by the darkness,
your hair golden-white,
snowflakes frozen on your eyelashes,
...smile frozen to your face,
a frosty heat permeating from your body...
like cold breath on a winter day.
sometimes i miss that girl...
the way she used to haunt me,
lure me back to whence i came...
but most of the time,
(no point in lying)
i don't.

Anathema 10/18/07

She stands there, dark hair glistening in the stark moonlight...and she's beautiful. She is always beautiful. She is real and honest in a world that grates against her like sandpaper and labels her an outcast. She is real and honest in the face of hypocrisy and powdered noses. She is Ana, with bobbed hair and a quirky smile that plays across her gentle face and tells me that in the face of everything that is false and ephemeral she will always be my everlasting Halley's Comet...my never-ending sunshine, northern star, ever-bold Anabelle, Ana, in the face of the world, my Anathema.