You wiped away my tears and kissed me in my sleep. But as I woke up in my empty bed, I found that you disappeared with but a trace of your scent still lingering in the air.

Brown skinned recluse, but you don't want to be drunk off my poison. My obsession is to sink these vampire fangs so deep as I creep through the furthest corners of your mind. Entwine you in the endlessness of my mind's innermost web.

I fail to see the beauty in the blue skies and green trees. Something deep inside is horribly wrong with me.

Your sharp words were so ablative to my aching spirit. And I hate admitting that drowning in alcohol is my personal ablution.

Demons creepin, but I'm the only one rollin with the heathens. Flesh pit misanthropic tendencies, beings so offensive to life itself, fuck yo health. Apathy is my closest ally when the vigor spills from the open holes from these broken soles. Soulless as my hands encompass the soiled footholds. Its so fuckin cold.

The moths of summer are no longer hungry for the light.

Enfeebled pursed lips that only longed to drink the waters that would fulfill my deserted soul. The mere contemplation of teetering on the seesaw between life and death as my feet dangle over this cliff. Little voices of mischief reminding me of a time paradoxically so close and yet so far away. I do recall times when the souls of old would give me company, telling me their stories, accomplishments, failures, detailing their excruciating wounds from loss. This was my home, this brooding cliff-side that reached up to the hellish skies above, kissing the storm clouds that reached out  to the sea.

I reminisce over times when we'd bond, foreheads pressed together. You'd feel the sweat of my brow, your essence squealing in joy knowing that I adamantly demolished the pillars of your inward prison. But these memories seem more like mindlessly devised dreamscapes, some feverish hallucination. I don't remember warmth in these times, and I've grown terrified that I may have lost the desire for it as well. I've long since ceased the painting of my blood upon the canvas, and yet you return to me to protest the severance of my tongue.

I must admit to you that my silence is pleasurable to the global audience. It is better to shut up the wellspring of my heart than to even dare attempt to nourish people with such a tainted spell. My drivel is dishonorable to those I call friends. Why do you force me to do this? What pleasure do you derive from opening my floodgates? It is better that my eyes would cease from blending with the cycle of summer rains. I beg of you, let my body find rest in these parched sands, let me return once more into nothingness. It seems so peaceful and alluring to return to that veil, that infinite void where not even a mouse can be heard scurrying in the blistering frost.

Why is it that you always caress me in autumn with those ominous wings. Your wings that give way to such baleful winds, and yet as you uplift the foundations of my damaged being, you are so gentle with me. I am desolation, destitution incarnate, and yet each day you whisper in the hearts of those I have looked after speaking that I am enough. What light can you see in such tattered rags? Let me succumb to end of my battles. These wounds are too great for me to continue on. And yet old friend, I still cannot help but take note of your sweet scent of dew on honeysuckle as you flow past me. You are distant, but I still see and smell the oiled colors on your fingers. You paint for me, acknowledging my burden.
Maiden of summer whose heart refreshes in the winter, where art thou?