Half-drenched hair.
the sky is bruised-black...

I see his hands, I see paper cuts
and flowers, I want to trace his hands...

Dear reader,
Forgive my ramblings...

I am full of headaches.
Living with him is hearing...

Four months later, still waiting,
for a kiss on the forehead...

Someone, please
recycle me...

I know loss like a dream I dread
but never dreamt; the spoon that feeds...

A decade of desires
has sunken into bedsheets...

Even the magazines are mocking me now,
smiling with romance like newlyweds...

"What was high school like, to you?"
I was the rat in the labyrinth...

I say I want to place a period
behind your name, but everytime...

I want the world to consist less
of headaches, of less collars that suffocate...