we have wound back
to where we all started
zero degrees farenheit
the rain slashes torrents
of the heartbeats that slow
and the blood that boils
into the misdemeanour, as
unforgivable as my vice
we have drawn back
to where it all started
a hundred degrees celsius
the circles tracing our steps
of the nerves screaming agony
from the blood that thins into
an unescapable ocean wave
and if there was any way out
let me learn how to swim.
is it bad
that i wish
just so you
learn how it
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.
“Fahrenheit 451—the temperature at which book paper catches fire and burns…” ~Ray Bradbury
Dandelion tickles her soft chin
Montag, are you in love or not?
Childish star girl of evergreen
Dial watch face and whatnots
Life with you, in pretty whims
Until a beetle ran you over flat
Her liquid mercury eyes staring
Where did we first meet, Millie?
Her snowless island, yet hailing
Faux laughs of a parlour family
Life, with you, lacklustre feeling
Until a snake expunged toxicity
Mechanical hound, metal growl
What are fires, but clean lauds?
Captain, with a solid-set scowl
His knowledge, logically sound
Life with you, exhilarating goals
Until a dragon melts your ground
Brittle bones creaking with age
Books bleed pores, do you see?
The clever professor assuages
With green thimbles, philosophy
Life with you, easy plans staged
Until wolves chased relentlessly
A silver salamander button melting
Fill this sieve with sand for a dime?
A fireman with his joys misguiding
A forbidden hobby to pass the time
Life with himself, scary, confusing
Until books made him feel sublime
In a monochromatic dystopia, a future glowing bleak
Yes. Chicago. Beauty. Yes. Can’t. Answered his insights
Wars waged in twenty seconds, and families of static
Watching butterfly pages curling, words burning bright
Life as Book of Ecclesiastes, walking with his fellow literaries
I’ll save this passage for when we finally reach the city lights…
ON FALSE HOPE
She thought the shooting stars
Were all just simply for her
But it collided hard with her heart
And left a gaping dark hole.
Perhaps I’m not the killer
Perhaps I poisoned the wine
Perhaps I wasn’t a stealer
Or perhaps I’m simply lying.
ON LEARNING THE HARD WAY
I learn my lessons very well
And stab my quill quite hard
Watch the crimson ink swell
Punishment deserved scarred.
ON TAKING CHANCES
I lost all my hard-earned money
In a bet against your hate
And I’m prepared to bet eternity
If it means I earn your faith.
Slam a knife against the wall
They deserve it they deserve—
Echoing screams until you fall
Heard can I please be heard…..