It all Comes down to [The Ground].

Dear Closet - Butterfly,

I. 

I dream of sticking long, metal forks into the electric sockets, with the utensil pressed firmly in my palm. I want to watch as sparks fall from my eyes.
I want to make wishes on them.

I dream of long, bony waistlines - a piece of art to tote around. The pasty solitude with my composure. I can't pretend that this is beautiful, anymore.
I don't want to.

I dream in shades of fairy-tales. Lips made of glass and hearts made of lies. She's the paper princess and I'm the atmospheric dust. The reflection in her sunset. The sparkle in her slippers. I'm the one thing that makes it all come together,
But nobody notices.


Oh, I've fallen. I've fallen so hard, and I lick the sugar-filled blood off of my hands and wrists. I wipe it out of my knees and I paint my bruises a prettier shade of black and blue.
I'm falling for mistyped words and muted laughs. I feel my skin shred across the pavement and the cells cry as they bathe in the popped-cherry blood that's creating sidewalk art beneath my skull. I feel gravity pull me closer to the base of its existence.
and it seems that gravity's the only thing that ever pulls me close nowadays.




I fell for a boy with a monitor for a face and keys for hugs, but my magenta smile and yellow cheekbones have never been brighter.
The other night,
I peeled them off of my face and hid them in a jar, so when I wake up in the night - they shine bright enough to keep His picture alive.

But I'm trembling and shivering and smiling. I'm smiling so hard that I'm afraid that if I don't hold on tight - it might fall right off my face. I'm afraid that if I don't start punching holes in my lips and stringing them to my cheekbones, that those, along with my kisses, might run away too. They might run away, like every other "best thing" that's happened to me.


I've fallen, underneath a boy with a plastic smile and magazine eyes. A boy with a history book in his chest and sins in his pores,

but I can't help it.
Could you?

He gives me the feeling of summer time rain and wishbones. He gives me the feeling of earth worms in the hollow-eyed soil. He gives me a way to turn myself inside-out and examine the missing pieces,
[but yet, he gives me nothing.]

And I know it sounds great, but I watch the flat lines run through the flat face.

And I'm a human. I need skin to touch and words to hear. I need someone who can hide a secret in my ear and rub shivers down my spine. Someone who can intertwine their Heart-Beat veins in and out of my laced up fingers, and someone who can leave me with a kiss Good Night.
I need someone who's real.
And I know this, but I can't help it enough to stop kissing the pavement as gravity says, "Hello," because he makes me laugh with every last, rattling, funny bone in my body. He makes me look at myself with abstract fiction and leave with a new perspective. He makes me needed-
and that's all I need.

I hate to admit it, but I look for things that are broken.
Things that other's have tucked away. Things that no one can fix, but I love the lust of a fight more than I do of a hand running down my smooth surface - because the first option means that I won.
That I did something right.
Yes, I hate to admit it, but it's true,
and it only ever gives me moth holes in my fingers and headlights in my eyes. I turn into a walking billboard for death in the night,
and the oncoming thoughts are what eat at me the most.

I've fallen, and I'm tied to the ground with my own dreams. Gravity knows my pressure points and I know how to keep myself there.

But I make this boy blush and I cause him to laugh.
I can create,

but it's him who's created the most.
I count the days - almost nothing,
and yet I look in the mirror and stare at a new 'piece'. With pretty hair, doe eyes, sugared cheeks, and a collarbone necklace. I don't know who it is, but I've never seen her before, and she follows my every move.

Now:
I dream of realistic photo paper and imaginative memories. I dream of future perfection in my arms. I dream of stupid stories and countless smiles. I dream of him, as my face runs against the cement while gravity welcomes me once more,

& I
can't
breathe.




II.

Oh, Aanika.
My irises take in your words and create chalk drawings inside my skull. The poetry makes sure that it inks its ideas and thoughts to the base of my existence, and my heart.

Through all of these type-writer boyfriends, and sunset-sunrises, I truly dream of that artistic ability that you have.

I'm addicted to creation,
but you produce.

And more than anything I'd like to create a production of Ecstasy for the eyes and hard-candy for the ears. I'd love to let words fall from my lips and place them in such an organization of perfection.  I'd adore to posses your talent.



You're a beautiful girl with Cinnamon skin and chocolate-covered-cherry hair. Your mind has gadgets and gears that I could only ever dream of having.
I admire your intelligence and your way to turn the dirty in to pretty with a poetic poise and delicacy.
I envy your skill.






Don't worry, Aanika,
because you'll go far in life. You're a comatosed butterfly with wings of stained-glass symphonies and artistic talent. I'd be lucky to watch you fly by.

I'm sorry if things are tough, Hun, but remember that with every sunrise comes a sunset and in the morning
the day has been casted with a new rainbow-sky and additionally a new torn-shadow.


Good Luck, Darling.

You're a Sweet Heart.








Love,
The Girl with a Heart Beat drawn in Wet Cement.