Most people say they’re bloodletting their soul writing poetry
and I wonder if I’m a fraud for seeing these words for what they are:
egoistic, self-righteous, me-perspective wishlist
watered with lies and far fetched metaphors,
if this was my soul it would be on sale.
Her first death is a tickle
she’s ripened with a rotten cord
clinging to the mother tree
but no one’s mouth is ready
the second death is the first frost of the season
and she has yet to feel teeth dig into her skin
the last act begins and her friends
are all gone, tasted and disposed of
while she sits in regret because she’s been told
it’s better being used than not being wanted.
the Nothing is listening
as she pulls the needle through the wall
sewing her cage brick by brick
as not to let emptiness escape her
the next day she goes to war
wearing her chains like a dress
and small stains of neglected love
on the tip of her sword.
puke: smeared pleasure, finger-shaped, clogs eyesight please like me: heavy with anxiety, glues to skin, impossible to see through heartache: crimson red, runny, causes shortage of breath water-based: preschool fights, traces left in rain, sharp wind to the bone waterproof: undying, mortuary makeup, closed gates hypo-allergenic: clean, virginal, shivers at touch yesterday: taste of vodka, hands on waist, pillow stains gone: hair in the sink, over-exposure, morning growing beneath eyelids
I prayed until my knees bled
for this love to pour out of me
down below everything
tore a layer off my skin
named this wound yours
and began growing a new
form, cracking the mold
of your memory.