You're a one night stand
But we spent too many nights
I lost count of it.
You're that unexpected kiss
On a drunken wasted night
Of vomits and *****
You're that awkward hi
Exchanged by strangers who
Thought they both knew each other
But were clearly mistaken for another.
You're the bruise that turns blue
When I accidentally bump my leg
On the corner of the bed.
You're the scar that I never
Knew I had.
You're the bittersweet taste in
My mouth every morning.
You're the last thought lingering
In my head before slumber takes me
And you're the vagueness that
Haunts me in my dreams.
You're the scalding hot shower
In a cold freezing morning.
You're the boiling tea that numbs
My tongue for the rest of the day.
You're the obsession
I will never learn to let go of.
You're that person I will
Never get to call mine.
You're the one that got away.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
He had a habit of forgetting
That the knife should be
At his left,
Unlike others.
Every morning, she would
mechanically
switch the fork with the knife.
When they finished lunch
she started clearing up
and noticed the knife to his right
again.
That night,
after their routine drew to a close,
They talked.
Slowly, at first.
A touchy subject walks in.
It's time.
Even as the air is knocked from her lungs,
She gets up and scrabbles on the floor.
Nails scratching the carpet.
Eyes scanning the horizon, now black.
Her brain decides to get up,
Her body disobeys.
Her body disobeys.
Isn't that what put her here in the first place?
So what if she is pretty?
So what if her eyes are sparkling emeralds?
Her belly renders her defenceless
from his onslaught.
Isn't it her fault
that it is empty?
Isn't she wrong to want
independence from him?
Mentally, physically, emotionally?
He owned her, didn't he?
He owned her, didn't he.
He explained to her the benefits
of obeying.
Her pretty face wouldn't have been
all those ungainly shades of black.
Her eyes wouldn't have been encircled by blue.
All she had to do was obey
and not tell anyone
but obey.
Her brain rebelled.
Her brain rebelled.
Her body, for once, obeyed.
She stumbled through the hallway
She knocked down her favourite frame-
Their daughter on a pony.
Kitchen, her sanctuary.
She broke her favourite China.
Hurled her utensils.
"I arranged them last week, you *****
And then she saw them.
The knives.
The knives.
They were inviting
Her hands were pale, waiting.
His heart corrupt, hating.
"Knives to your left, darling."
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
"It's not you, It's me."
such clichéd lines to be told.
I can still remember the look on your face
when you sighed and let loose all your demons
The curve of your lips slowly taking the form of a
crescent moon turned upside down.
The glitter I used to see in your eyes were no longer there
instead, I saw a pool of clear water finding its escape
through your eyes I used to call mine
But then, in the middle of your unending gaze
I lifted my hands to meet your once warm cheeks
only to collide with your now moist cheeks probably wet from crying
It was when I was cupping your face in my hands
I finally felt how cold you were under my touch
how you try to loosen our tight clasped hands
how you try to look away whenever I try to see your soul through your eyes
how it took you a long time to respond to my i love yous
as clichéd as this may be
it was you, not me
who turned our little something to mere nothing
and I hate you for that
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC