There's a certain sort of quiet when you don't know you're looking for it.

Bright lights flash flash FLASH, the end of my pencil on the table, tapping one two three, one two three, dancing the macabre as I drown out the voice of your teacher and the voice of who I am. Head head tail, head head tail, head head- no, shit I dropped it oh deary me! Room's too bright, place's too cold, math's too boring. I can't pick the pencil up because I can't be arsed.

Quadruple combination of wonder, would you like some fries with that? No, you wouldn't, because hatred is warm, fiery burning allconsuming-

-while revenge, revenge is the dish best served cold.

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I don't think that I've ever given it much thought why we say that staircases spiral downwards instead of up. Are we born pessimists, each and every one of us? Is it in our nature to look at the glass and say it's half empty, or do we lie, whisper to ourselves that it isn't actually half full so that we don't get disappointed?

Maybe somebody should take the goddamn glass and shatter it onto the ground, stab the pieces into your face, your stupid fat face that I once thought was adorable, and then ask you whether you still think that there's any water left. I never liked water, anyway- orange juice was always better. Think about it: water's the piss of the gods. Orange juice has more taste, more flavour.

Can't say the same for you. Asshole.
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They lied when they told me that tragicomedy was supposed to make you laugh while trying to suppress your tears, because it's so ironic, so ironic, things are so ironic these days that they aren't even funny anymore, it's as though I'm clutching my stomach waiting for the laughter to arrive but it never does. Numb. I think the word to use in this case is numb, the tangling feeling of sensation lost, thrown to the wind and blown away like brown leaves in the wind.

Can you hear them crackle anymore, love? Because I can't. I reach out into the sunlight, but all I feel is the patter of rain.

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And as I watch events unfold in front of my eyes like a string of silent clips, the whispered words of yes no maybe I think I love him but I don't and life would be less painful if it'd end, I take a step back as an observer and muse- no, I'm not an observer, I can't be neutral, I can't can't can't but there isn't anything I can do.

With the way things are playing out in the story of my life, I'd rather meet silence again, feel its pressure press against my lips to prevent the words from flowing. But is that all I can do? No, I can rewrite things; make it so that spangled banners of happiness dance from the walls, cheer and laughter ring through the alleyways of bliss and fear. 100, 45, 42;; perfection found within the realm of numbers, perfection so intangible that few can even vie to seek?

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Please explain to me why we aren't allowed to use the word 'fuck'; it's got a certain quality to it that other words won't allow.

F for fire, let me watch you burn; U for your mouth, for all the lies you churn, C for charades, all the games you play, K for killing my spirit for yet another day.

Fuck poetry. I can't rhyme.

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and i don't know i don't care i'm going downhill fuck fuck fuck this shit i say fuck fuck fuck FUCK! fuck you, fuck this, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck so much i don't know why or what i'm fucking, there isn't no love all you can see is the word FUCK plastered over your face in red, stab stab stab stab stab stab isn't it all trivial, isn't this all some sort of joke? ironic laugh. ironic smile. irony irony irony-

reds purples black, reds purples black. pound pound hammer hammer pound pound pound, bash bash bash ohmygod what's wrong with you bitch, stop pounding yourself into the grave you've dug when there isn't any self to maul. you aren't a you, you aren't a me, you're a bitch bitch bitch senseless bitch cow, dead bitch cow.

breathless senseless wind-flying-in-face madness pattering drops of icicles not snow sun screaming heart wrenching gut churning NO! i'm lost in the vortex that you've crafted, angels ripping your lungs out so that you can't breathe. blood isn't red, isn't blue, it's orange which is a mockery because isn't it what i love? but no i'm orange because you can't be defined, can't be fitted into the slots of either yellow or red, good or bad. and there you'll drift, drifting into forever, pushed away by both heaven and hell-


(because only time will tell)
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I'm not going to lie and say that we've been pink bubblegum crossed with stars, sweet blueberries with cream, or even spangled confetti on icing of the cake; because it's ashes now, what we might once have had, ashes tossed into the sea under bitter prayers and the curse that wishes don't come true. We were living a lie, me and you, and it's time for us to bury it under a gray slab, a monument erected as a testament to the tangles in our ropes and the deceit we chewed our way out of.

Shambles to shackles, lust to dust. I could gaze into your eyes forever but forever isn't real, and it's just a matter of time till everything shatters the urn I sealed you away in. The image of a desecration, the sacrilege of hope, entwining together and falling apart,,


(like the fragments of my heart)

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I'll take my revenge out from the refrigerator later, and you can do the dishes while we wait for it to settle. Talk about a domestic tragedy, a mockery, a brocade of colour while we try to pretend that there's still some semblance of love between us, perhaps?

But I digress. Happy Valentine's Day, and may the pinkness suffocate you.

Right.