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Broken China doll, left on the shelf.
Torn between leaving and staying,
Saving herself.
                                                     Torn between two, torn into two.
Between straying and staying,
Pouring out when there is only...
                                                     Silence.

Where do you go when the wind no longer sings
sweet melodies, but screams
                                                  in vanity, in vain?

Broken dolls, set on the shelf,
Victims of vicious, vicarious play,
Too young to fight the frantic fray.
Invisible, silent soldiers,                   Taught with tension, wrought with anger.

"I break everything I touch."
China doll, stuck on the shelf,
Allusions of grandeur
Warping herself.

Where do I go when the fields no longer chime
in tandem to their own sweet rhymes, but chatter
                                                                    in calloused candor?

Go back to the tinker,
you soldier, you spy;
Return with purpose from immortal eyes,
Maybe then the fields with chime again,
                                                           the wind beckon in song.

But not long on this earth will we hear the reprieve,
of forlorn fields and wayward wind
as they welcome the sinner, then spit on the saint.

About a Ghost.

This is not about you.
It is what was about to happen, that happenstance.
I wonder if you ever cared the way I did, found heartbeats where there were only half-lilting soft smiles.
I always wanted to stay awhile....but maybe now I'm just haunting.
Pining after hollow whispers, caress the carcasses of what I thought was alive.
A dead love. A forgotten thing. No longer will I wait.

Why won't you just leave? Ghost of my past....
Casper unwelcome and waiting, watching...whispering that someday, I'll disappear.
You haunt me...but am I haunting?
You see less than me, a whisper. A dapple of sunlight, the corner of the room.
You render me invisible.
Peer into my soul, sole survivor.

I am barred, blatantly banished to regions unsung,
Undone by the apathy in your eyes.
You left tear streaks at 2am, in different countries.
The map to my mind runs trails and treaties to yours, but there was never an answer.
You never knew because I never told you.
Yet...I never wanted to,
to tell how much pain bears,
grins like a lantern in my heart.
Because of you.

I gave, don't you remember, don't you see?
I gave and I wanted nothing.
                                           Instead, you give to her,
and I fade into shadows.

I am the wraith of the past, no present to you.
No presence.

No ghost ever wanted so much to be human.

Make-believe, blank canvas meshed into mess.

Not worth a second glance.
Just....happenstance.

Bitten

I was once smitten
                            with young                                  
love                                                         {infatuation}
so done with my "childish ways,"                                          
                             thought I could                                      
dove-tail                                                   {swan-dive}
                              into my own
pulse                                                         {demise}.


I will weep in veins of scarlet ink
and parchment paper skin,
but the tears I've shed for you
in the past                                             {even now}
are like dust                                          {and ashes}

because in the morning of our meeting,
there was only beginnings....                  {, but I'm always left with the endings.}


Once bitten.                                           {You smile, I smile.}
Twice cautious.                                      {Too close, too far.}
Thrice warned.                                       {The sin is in the secret.}


Suck out the poison.                              {I thought you were the cure.}


So long...                                               {For longing hurts too much.}

The Art of Not Caring

The art of not caring
                               is a simple affair
to toss hair over shoulder,
                               not any worse for wear...
tear eyes away from those times that seemed simpler
                                and dimple time, instead, with kinder, colder whispers
           of soothing ice pops, the pinnacle of silence.
You were mine.

                    I feel cold shoulders nudging mine,
when once they asked me to lean on them,
the hem of my dress brushing knees, knocking...that kind of nervousness
                                                                         wasted in
caring.
Caress the attack of redress, these abscesses of a recessed infatuation.

I miss you. I hate you. I care...don't care.

Don't.

The art of not caring
is a simple affair
                       a hair's breath away
from staying engaged in
staying in prolonged

caring.