imkaylakilljoy

Love is a partnership, Give and take, Come and go, Freedom and home. Love is beauty wrapped in silk, Fresh fallen snow, A good morning kiss. This is not love. This is denial, Waiting for something so precious, So meaningful, That we carve out our eyes And see with our hearts And not our minds. Love, Is not waiting at home all night While he is out seeing the world. Love is not putting your dreams in a box, Putting them on the highest shelf While he paints pictures of his reality. Love is not sealing your lips shut While he slips beneath your sheets. Love is not holding in the tears When he says no to your dream. Love is not sitting at ho

I look in the mirror, and see my mothers eyes, her cheekbones, her frizzy curls. I look in the mirror and see my fathers lips the almond shape of his eyes, the pin straight nose, the light, the intelligence shinning through. I speak words and hear my mothers voice but my fathers wisdom. I cry out in anger and feel the searing edge of my mothers fury, but the cooling effects of my fathers forgiveness. I cry heavy tears and feel my mothers senseless depression, the heaviness of my fathers waiting heart. I anger at my lover and hear the harsh words divorce, divorce, divorce ringing through my head. I cry in the empty night and listen t

No one prepares you for the moment that your life changes. When the air thickens, becomes solid in your lungs, leaving you drowning in a sea of open space, suffocating under the pressure of crushing, looming atmosphere. Words are whispers seeking help. Screams nothing more than intangible syllables laced together on broken, shuddering lips. Tears are our defenses crumbling into streams of silent self loathing- like this was somehow your own fault, it was preventable- it didn't have to end this way-      It didn't have to end like that. Instead nights are filled with dim lights, casting shadows on walls- another sip of liquor stained coffe

Frosted night-tide air breathes forth my muse my words unspoken. Cause and effect collide into a mesh of cigarette smoke and hazy nights. Adolescent games were all just reminders of the fate awaiting us. Lose yourself in a cloud of smoke, a burning ember trembling on lips so pale, so empty, so forgotten. Tongue of ashes, lips of smoke, lungs on fire, full of ashes, deceit, self loathing; death by ones own hand. Such poetic injustice. The perfect closing chapter to a forever ending story.

For the first time in days the world around me is quiet. Harsh sounds muffled, muted, faded. Lights that once seemed too bright now hide in shadows, casting flickering shapes against dark walls. Warmth consumes me, cupping the cold in it's hands and breathing gentle life in it's hateful essence, banishing the tremors that contort and throw my body about. Water trickles along my naked body, down my broken back, between my trembling thighs. I find myself lost in the silence, the gentle t            t       a    t      a      p       a     p        t      p                 a        p of water against cold porcelain. Steam swirls aroun

The worst feeling ever felt is being in love with nothing more than an image of a face, a gentle memory of a voice that goes with it- While endless nights spent reaching out and stretching, grasping, slipping, losing, failing to hold onto that subtle image, that fading memory, until there is nothing but a trail of smoke lingering between your stiff, broken fingers, a reminiscence of nights long since passed, a nostalgic breathe of cold night air between parched dry lips. A beautifully broken memory of loving lips against soft skin. Fingers running through silk like hair, whispers in your ear of promises for tomorrow and life long dreams to

My nights start with the unrelenting need to feel your hands across my body, to feel your breath in my hair, to feel your whispers against my skin. Of course I'm granted nothing but words printed on a screen looked upon with tired, forced open eyes. Eyes that are drooping closed with need for sleep. Though being the persistent person I am I kindly tell sleep to fuck the hell off and let me get my fill of the words being printed across a tiny glowing screen by invisible fingers. My mornings start with the first essential need of flicking on a too bright screen, temporarily, and painfully, blinding myself in pathetic search of an awaiting m

Don't you hide your tired eyes from me, they're my latest fad, my newest addiction; so full of truths untold, nights spent restless, days gone by. Don't you bother to cover them up I can't see the deep purple shadows, the beautiful depth of life spent with eyes wide open, and sleep left to the dreamers. You are a believer, a seer, a take no shit doer. You travel through pages, through countries, through memories, with your tired eyes, and yet you do not rest. There is too much to see in this world, and sleep is saved for the dead.

Death is quiet, gentle, ruthless. Death lingers; a heavy blanket in the air, a suffocating reminder of what will never once more be there. An empty chair, an empty bed, a silent morning. Nights are no longer filled with gentle whispers of one more goodnight kiss. Pillows are no longer warmed with the gentle hush of your breath. No longer are the sheets filled with the warmth of your still body. No longer, no more. Alarm clocks ring shrilly with no hand to quiet it. So I do it. The kitchen is cold and dark; bland, lifeless. Coffee does not wait in anticipation of tired lips. So I make it. A jacket is flung carelessly over the back