because every time you look at me your eyes fucking tear me apart and I don't want you to see that I'm more than just a paper girl who goes on midnight walks and doodles flowers on her hands with henna but I'm not a novel my spine isn't leather leaves and you think that life doesn't live between pages but that's where I thrive between the lines this is not some broken city crashed and burned it's my home and spiders seep networks of silver and purple for the sky, the trees and buildings talk to me- all they wanted was a friend and now they flourish and leaves lace trails of crayon creations but no, i'm not a fucking tree either. i'll meet her at 10:03 tomorrow morning and maybe it's cliche but we'll share secret whispers behind bars of cupped hands and yes it's just some stupid high school "crush" and well we'll laugh lipstick smiles and smooth eyed flickers "you never talk anymore!" yes that's because he's talking to you you drama queen who shreds the seams of glitter sheens of poems that I wrote first who treads the scenes of worn out snow like faded jeans I think that's where creased footprints smoulder sets like bonfire blazes in the sea breeze city sun. the dandelions grew there in the summer but then i took a photograph and they've ceased to speak ever since, the ice settles on kind petals searing seething stinging nettles- and maybe you remember maybe you don't- but they seem so tired now, so i made a snow angel and she came to life and flew away. can you miss something you never had? of course you can, like I miss the New York from my dreams the paper planes and sky sand ends the way the light glints scatter broadwalk ends. so i wore my heart on the palm of my left hand- it was a fashion statement but i hoped you'd notice first: it's been two years now so i've scribbled over it with biro. my heart only started to become an issue when it stained my hands tinted green colour coded sour apples- so i keep my fists closed all day and night, but somehow sometime I still hope you'll notice.
but it all comes back to that time I fell like tides fall and eyelids and rain, the way snowflakes flutter like broken letters and time secretly crumbles away. The way shadows close and open their eyes and leaves leave branches like broken blackbird couples at cafe spindle london dates.
and like teardrops.
because she has a purse for her knowledge and a locket for that artwork it spirals and twinkles off pages and drags dreads my days, because i don't really sleep. maybe sometime amelie you'll learn that edged skyline rims are sketched with pencil lines, that the birds that soar from soul crossed highs are made from sugar and they make you vomit. And if i'm honest with myself i'm just an idream a glitch on someone's shoulder, some gasping error overspill and you're probably all the words I'll never speak. but i wish oh i wish i could claw everything you told me from the deck of my throat- we don't deal souls here like a pack of hounded cards, no matter how many there ever are.
i've developed a sort of obsession with maps the way the lines pulverise splinter then recollide nerve ending neuron calculations the static steady rhythm of country roads and pastel outlines, and if i look close enough the phantom of your handprint maps smear sear from behind walls of thick bloody scarlet paint in uneven patterns like silver cats that dance with coils of thawed red thread.
the only one thing you never found out about (maybe because it's new) is the polished dragon that lives inside me and rises up fires up like red wine into my bandaged eyes, i can hear it trying to escape from my ribcage- battering it's wings against the insides of my bones, a creature of radioactive scarlet ribbons and fire flecked blood: so i have to vomit and close my eyes to push it back down.
if my home my city was flooded one day by acrylic waves of signal saves I'd sail a ship and watch as the hypnotic symmetric siren sun of seasong crashes gradually craved me in pendulums swing- but there are no sea cliffs- and no glitter waves, because the ocean is inside of me- this is what happens when you flood my home, yes watch what happens when you flood my home.
to think that she would cry if i told her that's the way you smiled at me- don't call me that it doesn't sound as sweet from your lips and why us? reflections in a single pulse of water are all we ever were. i'm sorry i'm not as green as freckled grass or golden enough to match autumn, i'm sorry i'm not yet as white a crisp cut wine or blue enough to carve the sky i'm sorry.
i guess there are downsides to creating universes when the rest of the world is sleeping, you can't speak from panels of misted glass frames, and now i gaze locked in my snow-globe haze and watch and listen to the rich laughs and rich looks that pass between a table, you and her and I watch and i gaze and I watch and I gaze.
and I forgot to water my imaginary city so my city didn't grow.