fair

i could use some of that long island tea he tried to force on me that day. welcome to life, babe, even though i am tired, and angry, and betrayed, and trying very hard to be magnanimous. the nights sitting in front of the flickering screen, trying to find the right words to say for you. the visions and breathless dreaming, the captivating sound of applause.

and all that fails me now. the amibitions i had, the smiles of an expectant child.

because.

now all i know are the tears on my pillow, that hesitant phone call, the fake smile that i will begin to use on a regular basis from today. the forced laughter for the ears and eyes of uncaring personnel.

and i hope my unshed tears burn into your soul, for the regret that i will always have. and until i learn how to smile like a real person again, please put up with me.

this mannequin, who has learnt how to lie and act and pretend, and who will need some time to unlearn it all.

in the meantime, just put me in the audience, away from the centrestage i yearn to belong. for the winners need their applause, don't they?

i, you, her

hi,

i'm a car crash heart
i'm good at putting new addresses on the same old loneliness
i'll wire myslef up to my headphones
though i still hear you clearly over the muffled music
i think pete wentz is modern poetry
the new melancholy of the 21st century
of cutting edge emotion your parents will disapprove
i could write songs all about you my dear
ha, and you wouldn't even know
i'm the reason why smiles look ugly
and smirks become a permanent feature
i could make my skin hard enough to carve your name on
cause' hey
engravings are so much cooler than tattoos

but till then

i'll make do with a tattoo

hands

she walks beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around the laptop that she clutches to her chest, more to keep herself secure than to hold onto the device. in silence, they walk together, and it's supposed to be comfortable.

supposed to be, she reminds herself, supposed to be like this because we're great friends, and we're used to how this is.

because even if he holds my hands, or touches me lightly on the back, the butterflies i get are all the wrong reactions. when we talk, it's how best friends behave, with the casual but concerned stance, when all i want to do is to reach out and hug him.

because this is how i am, and how he is. it can't be anything more.and i hate it when he tests my waters, seeing how far he can push me.

hate how i have promised myself to be always there for him. even when he doesn't know.

hate how many other boys have flown by, because of him.

hate how many times i've stood on the sidewalk as i smile at each girlfriend he has, knowing from the lips of others that hey,didn't you know, he's got someone new.

suddenly, his hands reach out to her shoulders, and he jokes how tense she seems to be. she smiles and relaxes, returning the friendly gesture. she appreciates this company in the midst of a hectic schedule. especially his company.

she knows this will last her for the whole week.

she also knows that this means nothing, but it will keep her. even though she knows... she knows.

vortex

and she walks silently next to him, arms wrapped tightly around her laptop, more to comfort herself than to hold onto the device.

cash flow jungle

the erratic downfalls and surges of your world. your blind vision. your insane figures with values that i cannot count. the way the heeled soles of your black leather shoes click against the ugly sound of concrete.

and you think you've got it all, but you don't. i despise you. you and your half-empty champagne glasses, and the cell phone that rings constantly with your broker in the line. hey, why not give him a special ringtone? you're on the line more often with him than your wife.

the blood oozes out of your medium-rare steak, the same way you draw blood from strangers who play your games on the losing end. they're the reason why you drive a flaming red ferrari convertible while they struggle with their mortgage payments. your fingertips tap impatiently against your wine glass stem, you're looking for more... more... more...

and like i say, i, a useless teenager who feeds on the wealth of the previous generation. i, too, am guilty of my own excesses. my drink, my perpetually plugged in headphones, my buzzing laptop.

maybe, we, the weak useless generation of parasites, are no better than you. and yet, we are far better than you can ever be.

we dream of what we can be. you dream of what you should be, with your heavy lidded eyes of dollar signs.