frumoasă mea mama.

she never thought her life would turn out like this,

and the bottles in the fridge are a testament.

two smoker sons

two absent men

the beginning of the end sets in now.

the lights turned down and only the daemons in her mind

to keep her company in the pain and despair

and no one else knows how it feels.

no one else knows how her life should have gone.

the west coast, the beach house, the beautiful family

she was sure that's what it had looked like in the brochure

that pamphlet in the back of her mind.

now its tucked away in the archives past the trailer parks,

the selfish motives, the moves, the lack of anything that resembles family.

growing more and more tired of the joke of a religion that christianity has become

the people who should care the most dont give a fuck at all.

its funny how life turns out, isnt it?

the dramatic irony.

so much time spent waiting for happiness to arrive

so much time wasted on planning to make plans.

i keep dreaming about you.

i dont know why that is...

other than the fact that i'm sort of madly in love with you. shh.

dont tell anyone.

not that i don't feel like it's already blatantly obvious.

like with every compliment i give you or message i send you

i put one more nail in the coffin of my disguise.

you are so obviously perfect

and i am so obviously in love with that.

i dont see what is wrong with this picture.

im sure your boyfriend could find something though.

lucky him.

i cant wait to meet him just to see what the luckiest guy

in the world looks, sounds, and acts like.

he must be adonis.

i see you every day now, and it doesn't make it any easier

cause i know that every perfect moment we spend together

is one moment i come closer to having you slide out of my life forever.

visit me in my dreams my sweet angel of subconsciousness

and sing me lullabies of better times when things could be you and i.

Chronicle #3

The mind's volatile anxieties leave a turbulent froth at the receding tide of her self-awareness as she rolls into the same bed she had restlessly occupied 15 hours earlier. Sleep both haunts and evades her. Stark, flushed cheeks bearing a shocking resemblance to overripe papaya nestle beneath a neglected mane whose strands have born the day's events not without valor. She arranges and re-arranges her thoughts, as one would a bouquet of half-awake, half-bloomed wildflowers, yet to reach full maturation and brilliance of character. Finally unable to finish a cup of strong coffee for her distractedness, she is resigned to top off the various rings of stagnant residue with scalding water in a (vain) effort to preserve her brooding temperament and consciousness.