34 flashes of light

i am scalding my skin to find what

else is beneath it,

curling up on loose hair on the floor, watching

smoke escape my fingertips like dirty

secrets, dirty emotions

i try to hide under piles

and piles of transparent sheets

i still see right through me.

there are a number of things that still

flash under my mind like

the smile i fake when i fake i am

happy i am a pathological liar because

i feel real being somebody with

colossal stories, i am my own coloured

canvas that hurts my eyes because deep down i

see nothing but a monochrome dead-end.

i have succeeded in trying not to

cry, because my eyes now hurt

when i feel the prickles i spit out

i am dead deceased in my own world

where things no longer

exist like poolside memories

and love love is dead

love is

dead love

is dead.

i feel revived when i feel cold. cold like

english wind slapping you in the face.

the lights are burning out and i smell my

own sin i can see myself better in the

dark, because i am parallel to torn sheets of paper

and ripped emotions and

a pitfall.

one thing i hate about depression is

you can't pretend it's not there

because you can so obviously feel

it poisoning smiles and killing

sparkles of dreams that once mattered.

i still can't sleep what

do I make of me now?