saturdays are like nightmares
that people forgot to recycle, and
have come back to haunt the
broken hearted and the
unsurgically altered.
your eyeliner is thicker than my collarbone,
and your lies are more prevalent
than the nausea i face
when i look into your eyes.

you are a wave of roiling insides,
pungent like winter-bitten metal
and narcotics. the nocturnal
deaths you've sewn into your sleeves
are falling off in flakes,
and it's snowing something heavy.
it is night,
it is dark,
and i am cold.

colder than the hands
that are pressed on my chest,
that are yours,
yet seem to be a reminder of those
long nights i spent alone,
sitting in a swing set that was made
of your bones, and strung together
with chain letters of
mental disorders.

there were the expected repercussions
of cutting short a chain letter;
death, loss, fires.
ordered in alphabets and
shivering book pages decorated
some place empty, and you were a
snowdrift with feet; cold, pale,
and just as affectionate.

those snowdrifts landed on my
eyelashes, and melted into my eyes,
slowly working their way through my body.
reminding me of long nights of
letters reoccurring through my mind.
d for destroyed,
h for hallucinations,
o for ominous.
me, for all the horrible aspects
of our future,
of dead daisies and
of lively tombstones.