Mixed Signals

inklings of suspicion

could leave

a splattered mess

all over the

clean cotton paper;

and a most

disastrous result

of two artless

individuals

vainly attempting

to decipher

some sense

out of a ruined

canvas.

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See Jane

Jane was taught many things throughout the course of her life. Jane was taught to be a good girl to mummy and daddy. Jane was taught to say her prayers and obey what she was told to do. Jane was taught to clean herself up and clean up after herself. Jane was taught to do her straight auburn hair up in ribbons and pigtails, polish her red maryjane shoes into a dazzling shine, and wear her best cotton pastel dresses. Jane was taught to walk with proper posture, smile gracefully, speak in a soft feminine voice, and to go about with tasks in an elegant finesse. Jane was taught to learn her academic lessons well at the private all-girls catholic school she was attending, and as well as her weekly lessons about faith and God at Sunday class in the town church. Jane was taught not to play too roughly, never to join the bad flock of black sheep, and to generally stay out of trouble. Jane was taught to be polite, friendly, amiable, and to be approachable and presentable. Simply put, Jane was trained to be a perfect girl, and she was taught to love it.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was the epitome of nice. Jane was the classic textbook example of the girl next door; charming, demure, a bonny maiden with a beautiful appearance and personality, living a scripted, sterile, storybook suburban life. Jane was a starchild, excelling in everything and anything, always at her best. Jane was sociable, had lots of friends and could easily make new acquaintances. In the morning, among the company of people, she was quite pleasant, a darling sweetheart in the glossed-over, uncrutinising eyes of the faceless neighbours. See Jane greet. See Jane traipse. See Jane dance. See Jane laugh. See Jane wave. See Jane smile. See Jane happy. But alas, that was the full extent of their limited perception. To them, Jane could be summed up in positive words less than three syllables long. They could never see the actual Jane, dark and complicated. They couldn’t glare past the cracks of the well-practised façade, and take a gander at the real version that’s not made of plastic skin and porcelain eyes, refusing to see the truth of the perfect girl that barely sleeps at night. See Jane depressed. See Jane grit her teeth. See Jane scream. See Jane self-harm. See Jane feel empty. See Jane strut mechanically. See Jane do drugs. See Jane muffle her crying on her pillow. See Jane as a complete fucking mess.

What was wrong with Jane?

Jane was taught many things in the course of her short life. Be this, be that, don’t do this, don’t do that, Jane never learned to think for herself. Simply put, Jane was brainwashed to be the perfect girl, and she absolutely hated it. In the end, it was not Jane with the fault, she was only the innocent victim. Rather, it was her guardians, her teachers, who missed a crucial lesson that might have saved Jane from self destruction. For Jane was only taught to exist, but she was never taught to live. Teeming alongside the controversy now, the very same life enveloping death that the multitudinous attendees are currently buzzing with. The haughty crowd, all clad in black garb, then proceeds to judge Jane with whispered huffs, gossiping under thin walls and blabbering behind paper fans hatefully, shaking their heads condescendingly with a chorus of tsk-tsk’s, saying stories and telling tall tales about how Jane was such an amazing girl, it’s such a waste Jane had to go this way, Jane always seemed cheerful and no one ever saw it coming, I remember that one time Jane…, Jane will be missed, nothing but senseless argot and unapologetic bereavement. Today, everyone mourned. But today, everyone also saw an accurate glimpse of Jane for the first time, and unfortunately, for the very last.

See Jane die.

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Chip

A child

And a porcelain teacup

Are similar

In the aspects that both

Are fragile

Should be handled careful

And small

But the difference between

The two is

That one can’t be put back

Together

Again if it accidentally falls.

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Transcendental

If transcend was I, a transience forget

Then might thine apnoea bades regret

If transpired was I, transverses instead

Then might thine eternity be that of lead.

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siren song

if the pain

is a sound

it will be

like music

to my ears.

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Wicked Halo

I was used to rejection, but not from the sky

Angels ejected me out of the clouds for a lie

Both wings were fractured, my halo dimmed

But I can promise you that this wasn’t my sin

They call me fallen, I’ll call them in expletives

I saw paradise, and it wasn’t all that exclusive

All shades of purity, all hues of vestal virginity

And in other words, it’s the most perfect ennui

I was extinguished, just another star left to die

But now I’m careening down, set to destroy life

You will ask, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?

But I was never there in the first place, so try again.

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a static thought

the briefest

dead air

at the end of

every song

and the

strange

feeling of

emptiness

that comes

with it.

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Callous Tongue

How fucking great

Is it to you that

You could laugh

At other people’s

Misfortunes?

If I were being

Kind, I’d call you a

Monster, but you

Wouldn’t care, ’cause

You don’t seem to

Have any emotion

And if I were being

Blatantly cruel,

I would say that

I hope you never have

Because the

Special monsters

Just like you

Don’t deserve any love.

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sleep-talk

the break

in your voice

is like a

heart attack

i can’t

fathom why

but it

woke me up.

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cold empty mattresses and falling stars

gilded honey

cascading

over sulphur

hearts and

severed hands;

sweet like

almond milk

yet rancidly

sour like

painful lust

.

i hope i don’t

scare you off

with my talk

of dislodged

clean limbs

that i plucked

within the

undergrowth

of my ribs,

tonight, i run

.

i love the

thought of

your germane

affliction,

the shade in

your eyes

speaks like dust

through wind

and i chase

for the ocean…

.

and if i don’t

make it home

before the

horizon screams,

kiss me and

hope that

you won’t be

embarrassed

by the attention

of the moon.

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Filed under Poetry