Young Writers Society

i seriously just sit sometimes.

just
sit and wait for some sort of answer coming from lips lined in red lipliner,
it just looks so good.
your utter black and rain[bow] perfection
is very loud this time of night.

i can't believe how the nailpolish rain twists and sparkles and
suffocates me if i'm inside at that damn time.
i've got to be outside, you know, if it's raining.

see you can listen to the smiths all afternoon with the water playing
in the background like your very own bassline
but how can i stay in the heated hell
without uprooting myself and just climbing out the window.

i feel underneath my red skin that you're rated r.
i just have this feeling like a paint stain,
like your paint stains that i can see on your glaring white shirt.
i hate that white shirt. i doesn't suit you and i hope you know it.
i hope you hate wearing it and feel stupid in it.
but you have to anyway. you have to.

because i love the way some people can stand in front of the mirror
and not see the fire of rain dripping down their cheeks.
i see it smudging what little mascara i'm wearing and i see it
melting my lipstick. it makes me want to feel beautiful.
that's what you make me want to feel. beautiful.
but it's not always turquoise butterflies in your hair,
or sequined dresses hanging off you like they belong there,
sometimes it's an underlying phrase like
godihateyougetthehelloutofmylife.
i don't know. i feel like that sometimes, and it should be easy for you to decipher.

i'm not sure if the oil on the windscreen is meant to be there,
but i'd feel intrusive if i went to wipe it off.
just like i felt intrusive when you moved to speak to me.
i didn't know if i was meant to stand there and listen
or answer back. i hate to say it, but i care what you think occassionally.

sometimes, late at night, when the lights are low, my eyes look like black lace.
and there is a scent in the air of long forgotten snapshots of reality.
i don't want to get all deep with you,
because
i
know
you're
not the sort who listens or cares or cares to listen,
but once in a while you listen to the hush of the moon,
so i figure you should be able to listen to me
remove my necklace. i just want to watch you watching me.

it's yesterday and the window panes are creaking under the weight
of my breath, my words, my tears.
i roll up my sleeves and i tie my hair up and i put on some vaseline
and i leave the room.
it's yesterday and your life is rushing away from you,
drying out and there's no one to hang it out for you.
your mum's away and i'm not around
to pick up after you anymore.
it's yesterday and nobody wants to know that i only want to listen to coldplay
and hear the rain falling on me.
nobody cares, and sometimes that doesn't bother me
in the absolute slightest. only sometimes.

it's tomorrow and i sit at home wondering if i should write a letter to you
that i'll never send, or if i should eat a packet of marshmallows or if i should just
lie there. i know the easiest option, and that one always
looks the best, like your future girlfriend will.
it's tomorrow and a girl with long blonde hair and jeans and a white bomber jacket
struts down the street like the owns it.
i bet she's thinking of the end of the year, and the beach
and all the fun she's gonna have and i want to be her for a second.
it's tomorrow and the sun is burning on the horizon, hesitating whether to go down
or to stay where it is, because it knows it looks beautiful.
you must have convinced it, because nothingnonothing believes in its beauty
unless you do. if you think death is beautiful then it is.

i'll start a fire; i don't really care if i waste a whole night
just watching flames soaring and roaring and it's not really wasting anyway.
i'll tell you what wasting is.

wasting is getting up early and sitting in front of a thesaurus, trying to
find a word that describes you so entirely and leaves no gaps.
i don't think there's such a word, because i've already come across
one that was socompletely, soutterly, sototally you: nothing.
you're nothing, you're just a figment of my imagination and all of our imaginations.
i'm not sure if you ever were real or you ever will be real,
but i guess it doesn't really matter.
nothing matters except this exact thirsty dying moment. just this one. and then it's dead.
written: Friday 3rd September 2004, 10:35pm.