The Twistedly Artificial World

dear bones, dear brittle heart and broken brain;

i am waiting here, waiting for
a ripple on the surface, crying out
for relentless demonic secrets, trading
each other to the devil for
a new plastic heart. i am here,
alone, writing with a thin, thin

hand, clutching a pen with rotten
ink and watching as new people
meet new people and they talk and
they claim, suddenly, they're in
love. we're in midnight sleepovers when
they tell me

oh, honey, i'm so in love.
just wait 'til you feel like this too.

and i want to tell them they don't
know what love is, but then i'd be just
as condescending as they are.

i am here, watching silently, dear bones,
watching as crystal breaks down into
dirt, skies turn grey and stormy, the
horizon no longer pink and orange
and beautiful. i am watching people
go from innocent to absolutely broken
to plastic.

they harden their hearts without
even realising it.

oh, my dear poor stupid heart, why have
you not hardened as well? there is
something wrong with everyone else
and i am the only normal one here.
they call me insane for feeling, for
letting my emotions show, for not knowing
how to be plastic and indifferent.

i am waiting now, as the ribbons of
breath wrap around me, curling softly
into places i never knew existed, as
blissful lies soak me in their lukewarm,
warm warm, burning hot embraces, rivalling
that of satan, for no reason at all.
and they just giggle, devoid of any
humour at all, just giggling

as they watch me writhe, stuck in a
metal pot put over a fire.
i told them to stop the burning, stop the pain,
stop the blistering of my skin
and you know what they do, brain of mine?

they turn away, eyes stitched shut
and mouths buttoned up, plastic hearts
cradled in their hands.

there was this one girl i met, whose heart
hadn't turned completely plastic, but she
had walls of steel and ice crystals. she was
sixteen and beautiful, scarred and imperfect
and absolutely lovely. but eventually,
they drove her down, locked her into
chains and dug out her heart with a silver-
bladed knife. then, they held a funeral,
buried the heart in a shoebox outside in
her backyard, like they did a long time ago
when they cared about their pets.

she's plastic now. unable to break down,
unable to adapt. unnatural.

oh, have i mentioned that they tried
to cut out my heart but they couldn't
get past my skin? it was strange, it was,
my poor brittle heart, enclosed
in thick skin and determination.

i am waiting now, at two in the morning,
under a streetlight of weakness, writing
in my very last moment. i can see
strangers walking past, drunk mostly,
caught up in their own problems, own selves,
own bitter lives. there are shadows, too,
hiding away in the alleys between
buildings, grinning sadistic smiles, while
unbeknownst to them, tears are etching
stories into their faces.

it's like my mother, with her wrinkles of
time, declaring more than she'd like them to,
and her grey hair telling stories of lost
love and injuries and travels to strange places.
she was waiting, just like the rest of us,
for something different to rely on than
the usual drugs and alcohol and sex combination.

so here i am, my dear bones and breaking heart
and stupid stupid brain, pitying every single
soul out there in this world who don't understand
won't understand never understand.
compassion is a beautiful thing.

but like all beautiful things,
it's dying out into extinction.

my mind is lost now, lost amongst the other
lost minds, calling out to each other across
places of darkness and bleak skies.
my heart, too, is fading into a vintage version
of my childhood one, as fantasies are
proved wrong and i watch my peers
become plastic plastic plastic.

i am here, waiting for nothing,
but the beating of my dear heart.