We Don’t Know
He doesn’t know
How our chest collapse through the knowledge of knowing
He doesn’t see - or chooses not to see
How the bridge between our eyes cannot cooperate
Our focus dissolves, becomes something unclear and uncut,
like a game of blind-folded darts aiming towards the absolute.
He doesn’t know
How the kicks of our brain caution us to take action
He doesn’t see - or chooses not to see
How our affections are pure but exhaustible
Our mind wracks a non-stop of possible solutions,
like bits of fallen stars granting our wish come true.
He doesn’t know
How his blood and my blood unite into one, into a whole
He doesn’t see - or chooses not to see
How those silent weeps shoot me with weakness and weeps
Our body trembles in vehement despair
like the dose of lies being spat in our face.
You don’t know
That each drip is equivalent to my drips, each drop is my drop
You don’t see
That your scars slice through me, your wounds torture me
Please, open your palms, open your heart
Let us guide you, allow us to love you.
Cliché Pains
My heart swells from the ding of the metal pouncing against gravel like a heavy breath creating one note of deafening music in hell. I’m shocked, I’m stunned, I can barely move a muscle in my eye as all my vision is blinded by the falling shine of what I believed was real, of what I thought was joy. Oh no, oh no, oh oh no. I can feel the thundering jolts of heat and swift feet leaping at my vulnerability, manifesting my nature and destroying my home. I can escape! I can escape … but I can’t, no I can’t. The desolated key you abandoned, left lying on the frozen ground, is the rusting key that keeps me in tact. You tossed it away like aluminum trash, for some foreign stranger to pick up and rob the innocence of my soul. You left my heart wounded, exposed and weak at best, resulting in punctured stains of escape strategies. I can damage my lungs, my wrists and liver, but nothing hurts more than a natural, deceiving heartache.
All You Need is Rope
The serendipity of our singing souls entwine like the twists of rope, being capable of hauling us over the tallest mountain cliffs, but as well endangering us with the route to our falling death. Don’t let me go nor let go of the ropes grip, printing stains of red indents on your smooth palms, for I will shatter like crystal and cry tears of glass. Please don’t cut the string of our life, for the sleeve of my arm will silently fray (immediately); stealthily reaching towards the depths of my heart, pulling at every last strand of memory I have with you, and making me fall apart like melted snow. Reach for me, my dear, reach for my eyes as they confess sins of my dying pain: when I’m with you, they speak vibrantly with no shame. Reach for my lips, like the grasp of a grape vine strangling the innocence of dandelion fluff - and caress me with the heart of your hands - don’t let me float away.
She is Me.
I lie awake in a sea of mist that scatters clumsily over my sculpted skin, with a blank stare processing through my mind of what awaits for me today. Brisk thoughts of restless boredom bore and overcrowd the depth of my single soul and I don’t twitch at the useless tasks of my life - of what my life is and has become. Can it be because I am fabricated by the sting of stars and the tyranny universe to never be appreciated?
I start my day with the basics of starting my day (you can use your unwitting imagination to say more lies about me) and begin to take unwelcome action on whatever feeling expands within me, pecking at the core of my tattered ribs and hollow bones. Or, if I’m too sluggish to play my own cards, the hasty Sun demons will decide for me and gather me in a cluster of nudnik waste.
The rare possibility of having one say they “know me better than I know myself”, is such nonsensical bullshit, as all living corpses’ minds tick several seconds off, give or take. They say they comprehend, “Oh baby, oh baby, I understand”, but how can they when the imperfections of their stranger is blossoming and sprouting interchangeably within their character, and without their knowledge to comprehend so?
I know … I know … but what’s tragic is that even though I horrifically do, like the guilt of blood plastered on my unbearable raw hands, I’m still that girl who waits anonymously around. I’m that girl people call up in assistance of a short staff work. That girl who’s always available, and willing to do absent things just because you have nothing better to do. The girl who’s there for you, but wilting with my body limp and skin shriveled, by each sliver of lost seconds. I am her; I am unappreciated.
What do you see?
“It’s peculiar actually … the thoughts I write, type, or text always tend to have more words than I ever dare say in person. I guess it’s more manageable to conceal myself behind narrative and unspoken phrases rather than risking myself to face reality. If it’s not evident, I’m not particularly fond with using exclamation marks or smiley-faces in my blog posts, or in anything really … But one of the more deviating facts about me is although I strive to say few things in person, the words that do expel from my mouth are all bubbly with a fake smile, to beguile people into a false perception of myself. It’s sad really; all the hiding I allow myself to do.”
These Encompassing Feelings
Cave me in like trapped fireflies; losing their skittering light for hopeful freedom. Seal me in shut from shadows of darkness that slither their way to my daring throat. I am abused by silence; scarred from head to toe by the whipping pinks of isolation. I am neglected from love, as what little left there is in the world, goes towards those apathetic souls. Corner me in, as my sores bleed fresh ink and submerge me in confusion of seclusion. Burn me in lies so my reality seems impossible to ever be quite possible. I am hidden by my exterior presence; hiding from my desolated fear. I am acidic to know, for I will melt the glamorous gold in your life like heavy flames vanishing into dark fumes of fog. I am alone; the true definition - capture me, chain me, don’t let me unleash.
To Care For.
She cringes at the simple sight of scars, crawling on the flesh of his shaking bones of ribs, and immediately regrets the insincere position she puts him in. Her lids fall drowsily over her battered eyes, while inhaling a lifetime of needed oxygen. Once they flutter back open - exhaling - she witnesses his struggle to attach his shirt back on to the limpness of his delicate body. “No!” she speaks, too audibly and hastily, surprising herself and him with the sharp harshness in her fragile voice. The face he fabricates deforms into a quizzical question mark. “I mean …” She doesn’t know what to say, and he has no idea how to respond. So instead of spitting out piles of meaningless words and incomprehensible silence, she takes a gentle step forward until she’s only an inch away from his half bare presence.
“I am destined for greatness.” I once was told by a bum whose eyes - swimming in the depth of blue skies - clenched with a sparkling fuse of courageous wisdom.
The Unknown.
The circulation in her body goes numb, like a sleeping foot, steadily swelling up from the inside out. On the side, she is the Walking Dead; a misunderstood corpse - unstable, untouched, with impotent and dysfunctional love blossoming inside of her. Trailing closely behind is an unwelcome, queasy line of corrupted blood; the one useless thing still keeping her heart beating - the one unforgivable thing still keeping her alive. She is an illusion, a depth of deceiving perception:
They will never
adjust the blurs
of their poor sight
and see her for how she
really looks upon herself.
They will never
feel the death,
clinging and clawing,
onto the raw soreness
of inside her scarred throat.
They will never
understand
the growing tumor of resentment,
that throbs like the pierce
of breaking glass,
and swells up and rots
internally throughout her life.
Sometimes it’s just so easy, to simply vanish into sticky steam and erase all memories of euphoria. Invisible and forgotten - a simple escape strategy - from the guilty pleasures of smiles and laughter she did not ever once deserve.
I Am Not Equipt.
I’m still hoping … . . still hoping … . . st i ll h o p i n g.
i’ve got this urge that everything will get better … . . get better … . . ge t
b e t t e r .
But what will become of me when I’m not made to deal with ecstactic situations?
This is me.
I am a messy, wrecked wound. An unwanted scenario, bone-chilling and flimsy. I am alone.
sobriety conceals secrets.
A shatter of hope, being gulped down like swelling ice cubes.
Stomach acid secreting each sliver, hope by tiny hope.
Vanished into foreign air, transparent in the hollow atmosphere.
There’s no such thing as courage no more, excuse my grammar but it should no longer matter.
Can they hear the sharp cracks of my once solid heart?
Do they know the decaying passage ways through my deformed brain?
How about know the ever so slightly words I say?
The words I dare to speak?
The girl inside me, the one who feeds on escape, her phantom fangs pierce me with temptation.
A rush of ambition chokes the truth out…
”Do it! Just do it now! End it for me, just FUCKING kill me!”
Truthful Illusions
I’ve got a sick fucking mind. Not the one with titties bouncing, ass bumping, lips rolling. But one which can paralyze my every bones and my only soul. With the Blue illness swimming through my artery veins; damaged receptors in my brain receive signals of spite and deceit, tingling down my twisted spine, in response to my body convulsing spontaneously. My torso juts forward, my head cranks back, the hairs on my scalp sputters in electric swirls. My eyelids flicker a quick blink of camera lenses, but not once every so often - more like times that by ten per fucking second. The sockets of my arms feel weight free, as if my skin particles and molecules have dissolved in result of my melting bones. The smell of honey suckle air and flaming flesh calms the nerving spit of ice in my fiery stomach. The taste of nicotine welcomed by my damaged lungs dances a hushing beat to my weak respiratory tract. Suddenly - unexpectedly - simultaneously, the clock in my brain goes ding! ding! ding! A signal of defeat, a single curse, dispersing contagion desperately. I SCREAM! And I slam back into the falseness of reality. I am left with the clinging sweat stinging my sinister, breathing ears.
The Deafening Silence of My Life
I lay naked, drowsily, in my foreign atmospheric bed. It’s 2 AM and I just can’t seem to downgrade into sappy unconsciousness. My mind flashes flickering images of my corrupted past and possible hopeful happenings in the forthcoming. But I don’t think about the present. No, I cannot, because my cognition is dreading the daring silence, like a watchful cougar eying its prey in the presence of moaning owls dicing the chances of the predator.
Disturbed by soothing voices in my head, song lyrics: “I don’t want another pretty face, I don’t want just anyone to hold. I don’t want my love to go to waste, I want you and your beautiful soul”, swims its delicacy in and out of my sleek ears, dribbling globule bombs of music notes and tossing mellow words and chords, like useless love notes without significance, into the trance of my feverishly aching brain.
My clammy eyes dare to trail closed, my dainty body tempting to descend into a heavy heartbeat of - one, two, three’s - per minute. No matter what position I land in - arm thrown across my swelling face, stubby toes sneaking out the blanket for fresh air - I’m moist and cramped and completely uncertain. I want to sleep, I really do. But I’m afraid of allowing my calloused imagination take control.
I’m tired.
I’m swarmed in my fears, with flies manifesting through my blistering fragile flesh. The pounding drum of noiseless heat inch its needy breeze across my insidious fate. The metallic tin sweet bulbs of ivory, drip an unsteady, consecutive rhythm that smudge into a puddle of overflowing, tender pain.
You are strong.
I am constructed with absurd instability.
You are beautiful.
My body reeks of staining, perilous insecurities.
You are enough.
My shallow life is saturated with unwanted, delirious miseries.
You are worth it.
I am nothing - not even a shadow - but a wasteful breath of human existence.
Don’t give up.
I’m tipping over the high brim of being hopelessly saved.
Everything gets better.
And here I am, drowning in a mass, depth pool of my bloody tears.
