Lashienne Andvari

this pernicious game that we are playing a russian roulette of sorts the revolver is pressed to my temple and my eyes are watering as I spin the cylinder you smile and turn away one chance to miss the bullet one chance to catch it a chance to live a chance to die I pull the trigger... my lifeless body is on the floor an empty shell of what used to be hopefully I'll leave a vermillion stain on the carpet because I failed at staining your heart..

I long to be a part of your beautiful world Among the colors you paint so flawlessly Among the figures dancing in the dark Like thoughtful fingers through ebony tresses I long to be a part of your beautiful world To be comforted by your embrace To be enveloped by your longing gaze A million words with no meaning I long to be a part of your beautiful world Among the living, but I cannot feel Among the loving, but I cannot be loved Pain at its highest decibel

There is a red stain on the carpet, I tried to clean it up but couldn’t. It’s ok, though, Mother says no one is perfect. I stare at the clock on the wall, I’ve no clue how to tell time, you see, but Mother says that time flies, and it’s best not to pay much attention to it. There are numbers on the clock, and these big black lines called hands that point to the numbers. I wonder, why are they called hands? They don’t look like hands at all, in fact, they look more like fingers. So I stare at the fingers, one finger, the longer one, is pointing to the number six and the shorter finger points at the number two. Mother says that when the hands, I mean, fingers are pointing to the two and the six that it is time for afternoon tea. I don’t like tea, but Mother says that all proper young ladies drink tea. I stand up and look in the mirror, I don’t know why there are mirrors…what if a boy is so ugly that he can’t stand looking at his own reflection? What if a girl is so beautiful that he or she falls in love with her reflection and never knows the love of the ugly boy? I think the world would be nicer without mirrors, that way the boy and the girl wouldn’t know how they looked, and therefore, neither would feel inferior to the other. Mother says I think of these things too much. I sigh and study my reflection, my long brown hair is parted into two braids on either side of my head, these braids are tied with pink ribbon, and Mother loves the color pink. I look closer and notice that one of my brown eyes has turned blue; Mother says that I’m just imagining this. I look at myself more, I look so pretty in my pink evening gown, Mother says I look like a princess…but can never be one because I’m far too simple. I frown at my reflection and make my way down the staircase; Mother says that I should always pay close attention to my feet so I don’t trip. I enter the kitchen and Mother is sleeping in her chair. I sit down with her and pour myself a cup of tea. Mother says that I shouldn’t serve myself, but since she is sleeping, I do it anyway. I set my teacup down and look at my mother, studying her features. She has long brown hair, just like mine, only hers have streaks of gray. Mother says that the gray is from being so wise. She has blue eyes, they’re so pretty, but right now they are hidden behind her eyelids. Her skin is the color of the cream that she sometimes adds to her tea. I look closely at my mother and I notice that instead of pink, she is wearing black. “What is the occasion?” I wonder. Mother says that you should wear pink every day unless there is death around. Mother looks so pretty today, except for one thing, there is a red stain on her neck. I smile as I remember the night before, I refused to go to bed on time…Mother got angry and tried to slap me, but I took my letter opener and slit her throat. How could I have forgotten about that? It must be because I’m so simple. Mother looks almost perfect, like the carpet in my room, the only imperfection being that red stain. “That’s ok, though, Mother…no one is perfect.” I look up at the clock again, long finger on the number twelve, short finger on the number 8, it’s time for bed, Mother.

Alone Standing by myself, this is what you've left me... Nothing Cradled in my hands, are the pieces that remain... Shattered Crying as you pull away, trying to bring you back... Begging Please don't leave me, I don't want to be... Alone

Big is beautiful, and so is this. Yes, I'm a chunky gal, too.

I don't know what to say, Vincent. You don't seem to want to talk about this at all. All I can think to say is: make sure you mean what you say..don't lie.

To make my mother better, that's it..that's all I want.

I really liked this poem, it has a positive message. It also reminds me of someone else's writing but I can't think of the name.... *shrugs*. Anyway, great work

I want to stop hurting But I make my own pain I want the sun to shine But I do adore the rain I want to be alone But I can't live without you I hate it when you lie to me But I don't expect you to be true I try so hard to be myself But I shouldn't have to try I want to end my life today But I'm so afraid to die You can tell me a sad story But I'll smile through my tears Sometimes I'm so immature But I'm wise beyond my years I've never felt so out of place You treat me with disdain I want to stop hurting But I make my own pain

Maybe some things Are best left unsaid A heart that's alone Is better left dead Give her wounds The time to heal And prove to her Your words are real