Your daughter won’t eat dinner tonight.

Your little girl is gone.

She wears silver necklaces that dance in the moonlight and choke upon her throat just as coldly.

She leaves the house with crimson painted on her lips and returns at 4 in the morning, with pools of dried blood between her bruised knuckles.

She’s gone.

And she won’t eat dinner tonight –
because there are embers in her soul, burning low and deep, and when she loses her mind at midnight she tends to burn herself down with them.

Your mother is lost.

When you come home at 4 am, smelling of smoke and blood, she has fallen asleep on the couch – waiting for you. She never lets you see her cry. Never. You wonder sometimes if that’s why you do the same as well.

She speaks of fire.

The fire in her blood, the flame you saw ignite in her eyes when you sat on the kitchen counter and talked about life, about dreams that taste like ashes now.

A fire that might raze this house to the ground someday.

A blistering hellfire that can’t be put out.

Your father ran away.

The world fed him honeyed lies, it spoke tales woven of sunlight and everything golden. But daggers of ice float in his veins, frozen so cold; you might get burnt at the touch of his fingertips.

He held his breath and tried to brave it all.

The chains he was born in. The shackles that he earned.
A wife who breathed fire.
A daughter born of inferno and glaciers.

A house of haunted little corners and silent dinners.

He’s still here, sitting in his chair by the window, reading the paper. You can see him with your eyes closed. But if you tried to search for him, to call out his name into the echoes of his empty room, he wouldn’t look up.

If you looked for him, you wouldn’t find him.

So here’s to all our lives.

Here’s to the crimson scars and bloodshot eyes.

To the art of rushing to the bathroom with tears spilling down your face so that no one sees you break down.

To the gift of pain we have all given and received.

To questioning the sanity of it all.

To the skies that have fallen.

And to us, who still stand.

and she cried tears of blue.

Numb, aching hearts.

Dried, rusted drops of blood on the edges of sharp little things hidden away in your many drawers.

Darkened rooms lit up wistfully by the passing of cars at 2 am.

Lips cracking into a chapped patchwork of blood when you finally open your mouth; because you refuse to talk or eat or drink or be – for days on end.

Long sleeves and sporadic haircuts in a hopeless attempt to battle the gloomy winter chill, because the sun never left the sky of the city you grew up in.

Listening to obscure grunge bands for an entire summer, so every time you hear the melancholy tune again you’re taken back to that time you went to the beach in the back of your friend’s truck – stale beer on your breath and salt in your soul.

Fake smiles slapped onto sad faces.
Crimson-veined eyes defying the many layers of mascara.

The feeling that empty blue horizons bring, the feeling that makes you turn off all the lights and stare into the empty space; the seemingly endless pit in your stomach that makes you wake up and break down at 4 am in the cold.

When you force yourself to tears because you don’t feel anything, at all, anymore.

The colour of loneliness.

Of emptiness.

Of voids that refuse to be filled.

An entire generation raised to drink and smoke and fuck and bleed in so many shades of blue.

Don’t say you love me.

I’ve never really understood how people say they ‘loved’ someone.

How can you say that you loved someone once but you don’t anymore?

How do people fall out of love?

How can someone be your entire world and then just, not be there anymore?

So we’ll get ice-cream together, dance in the rain, stay up till morning light talking about our pasts and our future, stray under the yellow streetlights at midnight until one day the morning waffles don’t taste the same anymore and none of the late nights seem worth it any longer.

Don’t say we are forever if you don’t mean it, because I might just end up believing you.

Don’t say you love me if it doesn’t mean the same to you as it does to me, because I’ve spent far too many nights on bathroom floors, trying to numb the pain out.

Don’t say you love me if you won’t stay the night; because when I think of love, I wish I didn’t think of pain.

3 A.M.

Sometimes, when no one’s home, I like to feel my tears dry on my face, running down to my lips so I can taste them.

When I was younger, I used to cry myself to sleep very often. And I used to hope that my pillow remain wet till sunrise, so that maybe someone would notice something was wrong.

But it never did.

No one ever knew.

What’s it with pain?
It comes and goes like the waves in the ocean, crashing so unexpectedly.There are moments when I know I’m hurting, but I don’t feel hurt enough to cry. Others when I don’t know how I ended up on the bathroom floor at 3 AM, with tears streaming down my face.

Sometimes I envy the little girl I used to be. She could cry so easily.
But then the world taught her that her tears were pearls that should remain locked up. She learned the lesson dutifully, along with her arithmetic and literature.

And now that she doesn’t know how to cry anymore, she bites her tongue to stop her tears from spilling and crashes onto the pavement, with no one by her side to catch her.

Intoxicated.

Where does the pain come from,
when everything is so shiny and perfect?

It’s almost as if I want to be sad.
and I keep asking myself, why can’t I heal?
Just let go, set myself free from all the scars and ghosts that haunt me?

And the answer is simple, really.
We love playing the victim. Or atleast I do.

There’s something intoxicating about the madness that courses through my veins every time I watch crimson flow down my cuts onto the bathroom floor.
There’s comfort in my deep, dark hole. I’m the only one who knows every nook and cranny down here. Nowhere else is safer.

When I was younger, I used to look in the mirror and wonder, who could ever love that face?
Growing up, I realised that it’s easier to lust after the face than to embrace the chaos.
Sometimes, I catch my reflection on the window of some passerby’s car, and I just loathe everyone who claims to love me.
Because no one even knows me.
Do you know what that feels like?
One word. Lonely.

I’m desperate to be understood but I won’t ever spill any of my secrets.
I want to be loved but I don’t ever let anyone close enough to look through the smokescreen.

I know I’m long gone before dawn and you wake up all alone.
But do you really think I care?
And yes, I know that I’m distant. But you’d get lost in a minute if I let you in my head.

I’m fucked up.
I’m jaded.

The pain sets me free.