awh..thank you, really thats very sweet.
You pulled me from that dreadful house and bed,
giving me no choice but to make new friends
and I said, ‘no, i would not go’, to what would be the point?
I’d meet a few new faces, talk about how much time chases-
away the feeling of how something that felt so real had deteriorated
and although the little yellow pill,
still- from time to time it will
find its way to help me sleep
but nothing compares to the one you helped me find- i lost track of time
now I can dream without the painful swallow of the heart that wallows
stuck within the middle of my heaving throat
And I know he’s not mine, it’s borrowed time,
for he will no doubt find someone better later on
so just hold it out, stay true and strong, ignore the pretty little skinny red flags- in the pixilated camera pictures
however, when its your heart that drags, across the clear, my mind can only occupy itself with the fear
the fear of repetition, I’m always on this mission
to find someone whose completely open
Such a mouthful of questions
vomit forth from my mouth
at one point in time there
were no fears; no doubt
Don’t expect me to ask them
because there are no words
that could form from my mouth
they’d just sound absurd
like how those eyes could ever lie
& cease to project the truth
the potential game that could be played
if so, then cut me loose
because I’m hanging
my feet won’t touch the ground
the noose is tight & I fight for life
for you, is the only sound.
aspiring to be
the young rapper that he sees
on the other side- he can’t deny
he’s petrified, and down on luck
the kodine cups
and acid trips
he can’t define, he always slips
like up and down
no time for ground
but neither skies
so he’s like “bye! I’ll catch y’all later”-
with trippin’ eyes- can’t even lie
Thank you very much, beautiful!
I felt undesired- correction, I was, and had been for a very long time.
You stood there in front me, I can remember it like it was just mere minutes away in memory. You looked so sincere and spoke like it too. Your expression trying to resemble something so fucking believable it just made me want to laugh even harder than what was going on on the inside already.
You tilted your head ever so lightly, like you usually did when you tried to physically show me you were sorry. How beautiful I apparently was, how you in fact did desire every inch of me; touching me. The tiny tug at the beginning of your brows; they quivered. And I would have believed you again, but it was just too exhausting. Far too exhausting. Far too repetitive. I was sick now.
A soft, hesitant smile crossed your lips as you noticed my body, deciding to approach, my expression weary and very unsure. However, I knew exactly what I wanted. You held your arms out for the cliché ‘it’s okay..’, But it wasn’t this time. It was far from okay, and soon enough, you would be too.
It was almost too difficult to pull from the warmth and permanence of the embrace, however the rage is what kept me focused, reaching my hands to smooth up from your back, to the sides of your neck, it all seemed forgiving and romantic at the time, that was until you noticed something; you couldn’t breathe. I wouldn’t let you, and as my hands, as tiny as they were, and as much as you used to make fun of me for them for how child-like they always were, you were now at their mercy, as the power gain only increased on my behalf. Funny, for someone with so much talk and authority, you sure seemed to be struggling for words now, on your back, with the weight of me on your chest after collapsing from weakness.
I remember, I was choking you. So fucking hard I was almost too excited to fall back into the reality of how terrible this really was. Squeezing, squeezing until I felt something foreign. Something, the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. Desire. Your eyes begged. You were desiring me. Desiring me to stop. I just couldn’t. Because along with the euphoric feeling that refused to stop stimulating me, came the last tears you would ever cry. You were loosing air, loosing breath. You were dying, just like we had been.
I laid with you, holding your hand. We would no longer hurt any more, no longer would we argue or be spiteful. It was a shame though, the only time you truly ever desired me, was within the last few minutes of your life.
As I walked alley through alley way, back street after street, the hope and thrill of a dangerous approach seemed to be further away from me than what I would have anticipated. It was a friday evening. So where were they? Where was everyone? The insanes, the mindless drunks, the loonies- someone just looking to start some trouble. That’s what I needed, before I could begin to have fun and cause mine.
Suddenly- a taker. Potentially… I was just getting ahead of myself; hopeful, impatient. Hungry, rather. Hungry to put some miserable, dirty pig in his place. Or, in pieces rather.
His footsteps seemed to lag, like he was waiting for something- or someone. I was this someone, I would make sure of that.
It was never often, but tonight, she cried. Softly, she cried, wiping away the wasted amount of mascara and eyeliner that had been applied only seconds before, and moments before then, there, having to live with the guilt and mess of a person whom stared back at her from the large cylinder mirror, rimmed with the brilliant lightbulbs and feathered boas.
With one leg, mesh stocking, up, resting against the base surface of the dresser, she could only hang her head. A bottle of nail polish clinking to its side, spilling it’s gluttonous ink like matter. The smell filled her nostrils, a euphoric scent that only lasted a second or two before she bit down and against her bottom lip, watching the polish drip and pool against the dirty tiling of the dressing room floor.
How many more nights until she had enough? How many more sheets would she tangle throughout, until yet another bottle of polish was through?
A slow and regretful head lift later, she slipped into the stilettos, ballancing herself between the dresser and the affect the powdered candy seemed to be having on her shaken legs and clammy palms. She dug her painted acrylics into the polished wood, helpless.
The lonely woman swept through dark corridors, her long, thin ebony hair, a cascade of satin blanket, as her long, frail fingers crept to coil about the brittle, chipped beam of the classroom door. She peeked her head ‘round corner, where she saw him, his posture rising to straighten after having burried his strong nose within the finest of white lines
She couldn’t help but slink silently, as she often would, now standing behind him with what appeared to be a smirk, spread with amusement. However, this time, she couldn’t place a finger as to whether she was lustful, or just wanted complication.
Why does it always seem, that us women, the more make up we wear, the more effort we put into our hair; looks- the more “beautiful” we are… the more unhappy we seem to be with ourselves.