Transition

She doesn't want to talk to you tonight but she's still smelling roses and thinking of you. She didn't want to tell you but rather than be beautiful she wanted to be violent.

A part of her yearned for blood, teh worst kind, the kind that hurts. She wanted to be childish and disturbing. She wanted to be murderous and a strong.

She doesn't want to tell you about the places she's been, they were sweet. or so she'll call them. They were quiet, or so she thought. They were peaceful, or that's what they were supposed to be.

She skipped over rocks and watched the baby ducks squirm. She wanted to kill one.


She's been stuffed full of secrets again, the worst kind, the kind that bring her to tears. She'll make a list, for you, of things that make her cry.

She'll make a list, for you, of ways to see her heart.

Don't be silly, DOn't be vain, she'll say. Because all pronouns refer to him. But all along she's thinking of Her.

The Her with pale skin and pale happiness. Her treasure. But never her's to begin with.

She's not lonely tonight, do you know what that means? It's the worst kind. But like always she'll be vauge and you won't ever know. She'll imply a knife until you bleed and say it was never there to begin with.

It's time for bed now. The day time kind. The worst kind.

The one to escape thoughts of you.