Designer: Manikka
Resources: 1 2 3

So obviously dying.
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Haven't we wasted enough time not understanding? No conditions, no expectations..don't worry, I'll give what I can't hope to take; all I needed was for you to know. That's all I've needed, this whole time. No more secrets, no more walls..you're the one I'd let those damn things down for, at the snap of a finger. Oh look there's secret number one..

I'd ask you to try not to be afraid to fall..but I think I'll wait down below, instead.

No steps to take, no promises to break, no labels or rules or fucking complications (we've wasted enough time on those, as well)..I love you..it's that simple. Don't you dare tell me not to.
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You should let me make you happy.
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Please know that, even as I flip through and put away these tears and bruises, you are kept somewhere between my top drawer and the tiniest chunk left of my heart. You're nowhere to be found, but there; with the fractions of me that I've refused to take back.

Those fractions have cost me an arm and a leg but they're meaningless when put together anywhere without you. I've learned to break and build new limbs, cover up with new skin, and wipe every slate and smirk and tear stain, clean. Those bits of me..they're broken and they'll stay that way, because they're absolutely meaningless for the time being..and I can't have broken arms and legs dangling in my way.

Because there's a target I'm out to hit; I can't afford to miss this fall.
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Only you can make sense of my ramblings; contrary to what you think, you make perfect, absolute sense. It's tragic..how you could save me, if you wanted to. The girl blinking my eyes and fumbling my fingers has now mastered crinkling my lips into a smile. By whose instruction? Who else's? (: You are anything but second best, you are anything but a remedy I've come to resort to; as far as the girl who blinks and fumbles and..smiles, is concerned, you are the best one of the best ones..and I wish I could find the words -oh c'mon, I've found all the words; rather, the courage to tell you the way I know I can.
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Some girl's blinking my eyes; some pathetic little stranger is filtering my oxygen, reading my words, and calling them her own. She's back. There's a girl outlined perfectly by my flesh and held together by my bones and I still have no idea who she is..

She seems nice, though..she seems to be beyond hurt, beyond most emotion. Oh and most of all, over love. Who is this girl?? She's nice and she's agreeable and she's so stable it hurts but I don't like her, not one bit! Who is this girl and how did she gain access to my crumbling, fumbling brain? How long is she planning to stay?

I know why she's here, I know what she's up to, but maybe I don't want to be kept sane..then again, maybe she's all the hope I've got..

This is the girl I've subconsciously welcomed in time after time; she's the girl who's taught me so well how to forget. Somebody get her out of this skin and peeled off these bones..
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We live and breathe the same air, pass through the same doors..but something separates you and I by a whole dimension other than time, other than space. And yet..you, I would love to give the entirety of my heart, to; with all its salvaged bits and pieces. Try not to fade away, there's quite alot of saving to be done..
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What happens to a soul incapaticated beyond all reason? A heart ordered by its mind to cease to exist? There is no rebellion to the thought of martyrdom..no struggle against the choice of seemingly selfless love.

A heart and soul can exhaust all means to find reason..reason slips past every shadow, every word misplaced, every fear..

The oceans can't see beyond the crashing and thrashing of salt water on resolution; this skin and these eyes and cheeks have no means or reason to alert sensation for salt water tears against salvation..

Who cares about what happens to a soul incapacitated beyond reason, or a heart that's learned and learned to accept ceasing to exist? Pain is no longer a sensation; it's a word put into weaker minds and more selfish intentions. It's irrelevant, insignificant, swept under a rug and hidden behind secret identities..

See, see, I told them I'd save you..and we knew you'd never have a clue.
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There's hope for the World when a selfish little bitch like me can play the hero..
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In times like these, I feel the need to confide in my selfish, self-absorbed words..prompted by the vanity of disappearing into my exaggerated reality.

Because what I haven't got can't compare to what I swore I found once before; and the curtains kept shut like iron cloth don't show any signs of letting me onstage. I am detached and helpless..useless, really, like that sad porcelain doll kept atop a dusty old shelf.

She's a little more than those rag dolls and wooden puppets, but colder, for that very reason..preserved and polished and void of human touch! Empty and carelessly thrown into a glass casing of neglect; lacking sensation, stricken off the billing, kept at a safe distance -as dead as any organism can get, woman, dead! And unable to rot; forbidden to live and unable to die!!

So she sits atop that rickety plank of wood, watching and hoping that the others get through their acts just right..she can't do much more than that. She would. But she can't. She can't seem to find her way down; such ideas were never presented to her, the option of asking to be given a second glance. She is a porcelain doll, untouchable and unable to touch and feel even the splinter of a wooden puppet's kiss..but in times like these, the thread by the edge of her dress will find reason to unravel..in times when that old wooden puppet's strings snap.
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The way people can control their minds is scary beyond belief. Most of us don't know it yet, but you can modify your memories and the way you think just by wanting to -by really, honestly, "cross my heart and hope I die if I don't do this right", wanting to. You can trick yourself into thinking that low-fat sugar-free cookies are way better than Mrs. Fields triple chocolate ones. You can block out your dad's voice when he clearly told you to clean your room, get good grades and say no to pre-marital sex. And yes you can even forget people and feelings and the casualty in which your heart swears it would report the plate number of the monster truck that rammed into it, if your brain hadn't made it forget.
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It's people like you who bring me right to my limits; who make me want to tear out in hysterics. People who have no sense of self-assessment, people who cannot write sensitivity before society, people who are unable to see past themselves and their level of comfort. It's people like you, who ask idiotic questions and hope for safe answers, who don't deserve so much as a civil word

..how can you even expect enthusiastic conversation?

But what disgusts me most about you -and people like you, is the blatant hypocrisy that crawled its way into your "sensible" brain and the way you entertained it like a visiting Pope. What I cannot help but ignore you for is the fact that you see every bit of you rotting, slowly and obviously, without enough sense in that formerly "sensible" brain to care!

Here's a question; are you alright? And what the hell happened? I can't even bear to be in the same room as you, anymore, sometimes -to extreme measures. And for someone as loose in the lips as I am, it's incredible that I can barely throw together two words to reply.

It's people like you and people like her, but we'll dwell on that another time..this is a complete waste of time and (negative) energy. You're turning into a complete waste of time and energy..and it's a crying shame, really. What the hell happened..
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Sometimes we need the breaking, the tiniest bit more than the mending, itself..and this isn't about the masochism, and the need to feel more than stitches up your spine..because sometimes, we mend to remember, but always break to forget. And the way things are going, quite frankly, I could use a little break..or an evil piece of KitKat.
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Is it possible to run out of words with you? No, there is no way imaginable that I would let conversation run dry or even consider allowing you to slide off and drop me like a bad habit.

It's practically programmed in my systems to try, desperately and exceedingly, to keep you the least bit interested..to make you wonder, to keep you on the other end of that line, to make you say something; anything, 'til you're not (:
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Still too much of you I need to discover, and already, you're more than enough reason to abandon all fear. I know, I know; my infamous exaggerations, my runaway-writing. I can't help it when it comes right down to that old clock and my secret one-sidedness and the plans that never hit the mark..but elicit sighs, and stutter shock. I cannot make you feel safe..only happy. Think about it.

Sometimes you wake and sometimes, yes, you die..but there is a third alternative (..sometimes when you fall, you fly)
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There's nothing wrong with wishful thinking; with hoping that I caught those second-long glances just right, or with holding them for a nanosecond more. There seems to be so much novelty to your words, as of late..a new sensation, entirely. What is this, exactly? Me, making a complete fool of myself? -no, there couldn't be anything novel in that, at all. For the mere reason that I am of the breed that dwells on and paints onto emotion; those who mistake delusions for sincerity. And of all my fictional delusions, you've managed to be my favorite, without a doubt.
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Emerald green is not a shade of dream..it shouldn't be, at all. But how can it not be, when I'm making my way past weightlessness, and phasing through everything in between? I can't fake far past anything in between. I can't handle second-long glances at the clock face, or waiting by the threshold..and I don't want to keep much more, within it. You must be sick and tired of being one big joke; or too drunk and high and stupid and ha..hap..happy, to care.

Pass that shot glass.
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Get out, while you can..or stay out, rather. They'll never let you -get out, that is. Clawing their way back onto your perfectly pleated skirt, they'll make sure that tag stays on. That stamp across your wrists'll remain unsmeared..perfect, perfectly aligned, picture perfect.

While she polishes her latest French tips, and the other carousels the alcohol, they'll make sure to keep that smoke blowing in your eyes. Those secrets'll remain unspilled..they'll make sure of that; like the tag, with the joint, and that old scene.

They'll take a light and break it into the shards nobody knew would cut so deep. But you'll stay, and you'll watch..the vibrations from those strings are a masochistic sort of comfort.

At the very least, you've got the light to take and break.
At the very least, you are pulled at, attached at the hip.
At the very least..you've got something to write about,
walking down that writer's block.

This way, you're sure to collapse onto someone gasping for air. You'll collide into each other and reach out for your screwdrivers and cigs. And, quite frankly, no one'll be any more surprised than your own self.

These are the girls who will whisper knives into your spine, the ones who will carve you out 'til the flesh and bone remain inseparable, the company that would could and will change you like channels,

these are the best people you've ever met in your entire life.
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At night, I believe -when all souls begin to fold themselves neatly and fill bedside drawers; mine chooses to unlock the hinges and seek out a new serene. It forgoes the fireworks, completely, and falls into the silver web..melting and sinking, slipping slowly into segments that spill between spirits and stars..a fatal binding between city and sky.

As the lights ease onto the streets, as times passes by and by every string and vertex, the substance cannot help but turn brittle. And when these lights and times fight long and hard to collapse the intangible, my soul returns, churned and blurred within a flimsy chain that keeps your spirit in my chest and stars to light my eyes. It climbs aching, like a firefly shaken loose from a black widow, back into my ribcage and faints, fading below my sheets.
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Nadia is a my resurrection; a beautiful possibility
..and -quite possibly, a constellation all on her own.
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I could not withold the lackluster which seemed to sprawl onto our airwaves. We are apart, not by roads or bridges, or emotionless kisses; but by worlds we've learned to encase ourselves in. No, I cannot help but detect the tyranny in your words or the inconsistency of who you've chosen to be; I am the one who lies behind every window you tap and door you knock on.

My eyes can stand to be perfectly oblivious to the spears in my stomach; they can see beyond the ache. None of me has to remain intact, when we've learned to fall and break and bend; to leave and fake and mend, so seamlessly, and none of me has to know.

But this knowledge limits itself to the tangle of my hair and desert of my lashes, to the ruse of my lips and the strength of my chin -it falls short of the weight on my shoulders, and the lock on my organs. Breaking into a metropolis of logic and lunacy was the least love could do to pick up its slack -that and, as always, falling into fiction.
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A flight, light -like the clouds above a midnight throne; could have very well come from a dream so dark it could maintain its equillibrium only by blaring bright, white wings. I know a girl who'll send you a million trinkling feathers of perfume if you give her a tear shed for a love that lay itself so low, for anything but cowardice's sake. Sleep cannot break her, silver is her form. Her smile is the sweetness of dried roses and champagne.
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There are no hours to commit to the stiffling silence. Beyond these walls are sleek secrets that have failed to resurrect any emotion, or garner any validation, for that matter. There are only floods of useless words, pouring out carelessly in attempts to ease burns or ignite flames like a kiss of gasoline.

They ease into systems, in place of promises never kept and words half-meant; like hot flashes of renewal, like fingernails digging into your skin, and nothing at all like the lie you live.

You fucking cunt.
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