MMercenary

He was alive; thankfully he died.

So I've always been an ordinary kind of girl. Average or, thereabouts. At twenty-one I haven't acquired any unusual anecdotes about myself, and my neurosis are no more or less complicated and strange than anyone else my age. Tall with large hands and big feet and not particularly striking, that's me. I've got my chubby parts but I have come to terms with them. I don't believe that I'm unattractive; I just know I'm not going to win any pageants any time soon. Not that I would want too. There's only so much phony smiling that I can do before my face falls off. College is a struggle for me, not because I'm stupid, though air-headed I really am

Three weeks out and I sit here with the hollow people and write meaningless words to pass the time. Your worry is uncomfortable and I am unworthy. I will never be one of you, one of the beautiful people. The weird ones. Ineffectual to the end, memorialized not even in death. Just another pointless gasp and attempt to belong. Among the elitist rejects rejected, shunned by the unpopular. My words sound silly even to me. Your music, your ways are foreign to me and I will never be one of you. To run away is my salvation, keep your eyes off of my back and look at me. I am not you. I'd walk forever if I could, but I don't have the courage. I wish I

Scented candles collecting dust. Dripped wax, frozen against wood and glass and satin. Betraying sheets knotted and bunched, kicked away in the moment. Pillows strewn like so many forgotten casualties of war. Only months ago her heart had been so light that she'd had to catch it in a net, flitting on the breeze like tiny, multi colored butterflies. Though no longer shattered, the pieces were an ill fit, constantly shifting, scraping, their edges jagged and brittle. She'd gathered the remains, patching them together, ruining her pleasure spoiled hands, teaching them their lessons. It beat, however slowly, lacerating and moving ever deeper into

My smokey, sweaty clothes lie in a tumbled pile on the floor. One of my Chucks pokes out from the tangle. The other is lost and presumed smelly. There's a purple wristband on my dresser, snapped off this morning before my shower could turn it purple pulp. It is the used wrapping paper of its kind, loved for a night, offering the gift of inebriation, but now only a scrap of its former self. My hair is a snarl of bobby pins and clips, though the top is still in its signature pomp. How odd. My eyes are raccooned with black and red, but true to the bottle my mascara has stayed in place. It'll burn the hell out of me when I finally take that showe

Me and Peter, we meet in the park We sit We feed the ducks We don't talk You see Me and Peter, we understand each other Maybe Peter has a life, outside of sitting Maybe he has a house And a car And a wife With me, he doesn't talk about those things He just sits Quietly I like Peter that way. I too have a life that's not here I have a house A car No wife (But I do have a boyfriend) I don't talk to him about them either I feed the ducks Quietly Peter and the ducks, they like me too. Sometimes I want to ask Peter questions Not about him About me About my life Peter seems to know He smiles Shakes his head But offers

I want to take your picture I want to wrap you in silk and leather I want to tie you in ribbons I want to hide you under covers I want to fall asleep in your arms I want to share with you I want to cry with you (though only with you) I want to cook with you I want to dance with you I want to sing with you But most of all I want to be. With you.