you're not the girl you had hoped you would become.

it came days ago

-

i will not be dependent on you.

-

i tried to cry after that and i couldn't.

hot tears burning my (clear) eyes

not falling, no..as if they knew that it's not real enough anyway

dreams aren't worth it..dreams aren't worth it

(threads that are golden)

and this girl doesn't know how to handle it!

(remember an overabundance of tears? when they wouldn't stop, that cleansing, that expression...because it was needed, so needed. to equal the falling inside? floods. because that was So real.)

-

keeps perfectly still

i kept my quiet, anything i say seems to involuntarily burn like fire

no, acid

eats away..

-

long days like these

-

the conversation (the day..time) got me craving this poem.

so here it is

-

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.

You leave the same impression

Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Both of you are great light borrowers.

Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.

I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,

Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,

Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,

And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abuses her subjects,

But in the daytime she is ridiculous.

Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,

Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,

White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,

Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

-sylvia plath ; the rival

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