The WordsIt started softly at first. Little words and instances, and small betrayals that left questions sticking in her mind like needles. Words that hit her skin like stones, leaving bruises that spread and scarred and left fear in their wake, words that kept her up at night.Who I am? What am I doing here? And who are you?The words start tumbling faster now, and come with twisted expressions of anger, bitterness, resentment and blame. It's taking her back to her childhood; the memories of disquiet and fear and always, always the blame. It's taking her back to the fear of speaking, the fear of being touched, ever. The fear of meeting someone's eyes. There is only anger around her. An atmosphere weighed down by secrets and the blush of blood rising into skin. And inside, nothing but emptiness and the echoes of something deeper, something that will never be undone.There is a stranger asleep beside me. Someone I no longer understand, who no longer understands me. I am afraid of their
Bloody LiesJust left with broken promisesThe shards scatter the floor.Cut my foot on one and then I'llBleed 'til I'm no more.I laugh maniacally as I cryAnd slam my head against the door.I scratch my arms because they itch'cause they wanna bleed some more.Laughing, crying, singing, bleedingAre nothing but verbs to me.I'll carelessly flail about as IDance the dance of insanity.My heart has become as knotted asThe necklace I had gotten from you.It's cruel that I can't strangle myself with itFor my death is long overdue.Here me now, God, for I have sinnedMy last confession wasWhenever I last begged you to bring me downAnd you failed me becauseI pleaded to you for mercyAnd had been given lies instead.I'm just so tired of waiting.Just get it over with, I want to be dead.
Bookstore ReligionLurking in the shadows of roses,I formed my own Gods,my own constellationsbetween the thorns in my teeth.Naming them after charactersin a November's love story,Porphyria, Dorian, and Gatsby-I tasted earth and copper pennies.Choking on peppermint and oils-out of my mouth in rambles ofhideous beauty:I recited poetic prayers to the classics.
The Faceless RunnerI knew the runner who was named Trouble And she ran in the rain with her stilettos onWith her palms full of tripping scars andFalling bruises.In another world, you were still painting that perfect pictureOf a face that was long forgotten and a pair of abandoned pink stilettos.While I waited on blistered soles and bitter coffeeWith Trouble's face on the mug; laughing Like she had never left.That day, I wrote a letter to the runner:It is your fault that I'll grow fat becauseThere's nobody else to share that box of chocolates with.(In the painting, the runner was still facelessBut the rain has turned into a blizzard).