I’m scribbling this numb.
Very, inexplicably, numb.
there’s a frigid draft coming in from my window,
and, at this moment,
I feel that if i were not bound by endless expectations and worldly aspirations,
I would probably go with the breeze and leap from the third floor.
praying that I land on the ground hard enough to wake myself up.
I’m scribbling this worried.
Very, knowingly, worried.
there’s a reoccuring dream, every other day.
when I am knee deep in my poison,
diving into glass shards and trophy caps.
an array of chanting.
I am the reigning queen, of,
Nothing.
and, here I am.
Up to my neck in caps, swimming in remains,
on the third floor,
ready to wake myself up again.
Three….
Two…
One…
Wait, how did I end up back in my bed?
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
There was a somber sky.
and when I thought I felt a raindrop pounce on my arms,
I was sorely mistaken.
You hovered above me, stout defense in your eyes,
rounded fists and lips sealed.
I wanted to be sorry.
Your tears slithered down my arms,
my palms caught them,
and back onto your shirt they went.
"I could never be more sorry.
I could never feel worse.
I could never understand why I did this. "
Why don’t you give it a shot?
Imagine the hunting knife tucked neatly under your pillow,
drives a hole in your heart.
Imagine your throat swollen from sickness,
And someone asks you to swallow nails for dinner.
Try thinking about jumping off a cliff and landing on some rocks.
You could never, right?
Then why did it seem okay to do it to me?
Do you know how hard it is to scrub heartbreak out of the carpet?
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
White Lies
or was it white lines?
I suppose,
in the romance of it all,
she married the lies, to get the lines.
and in some infinite world, where she’s immortal,
it does not matter what lie made the line.
as long as there is a line.
she lays in her bed, layered in guilt,
what to say to me next, I bet she has no clue.
Once.
it just had to happen once.
before I was knee deep in a desk lined up with lies.
A crystal white.
a decadent white,
she fell in love with the way her body sang,
with the way her heart pattered against a drum,
with the way her eyes gave out before she could give in.
Just lie to me,
and tell me you’ll make it out of here alive.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
Green Kisses
it’s grotesque.
The hum drum sound your lips make when they’re sour.
it’s a shame I love sour candy.
she’s so lost, just look at her
does she even know no one wants her here?
Pity.
On you.
For assuming I was anything less than your opinions.
is it because I wear my hair down in loose tendrils, so you can see them twirl.
or is it because I wear shorts, so you can see the scars,
I doubt you noticed those anyways.
you seem to only have eyes for the lime eyed monster in the mirror.
is he as pretty as you?
I wish you could understand why I sit in the back, why I speak when spoken to, why I never smile.
You.
I imagine you figure it’s because of you,
isn’t everything
because of you?
Or you’d like to assume it is.
Your hands, dead grass green with vanity,
While I, dousing myself in insanity,
hope , that, maybe one day you’ll see colors less loved.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
Yellow Dreams
it’s a loss
to know that in some offset, far away world, there’s the possibility that I survived.
the almost time, when I stood, when I dragged my limbs across deserts and lived.
in a cave set on fire, I let the flames swallow me.
the last thing I knew was the devouring heat of a yellow glow,
clenching my pulse with a fist,
Telling me no more.
it’s a tragedy
to know that in that offset, far away world, there was the sometimes opportunity for you and I to thrive.
the would have been moment that could have opened our eyes.
in a deserted orchard,
the lemons, though sour, kept me alive, reminded me of you.
I bit fruit too pretty of a shine, for a rotten inside that tasted of sour hopes.
some unfortunate Adam and Eve parable,
I was taught to trust my own.
Telling me to move on.
it’s a victory
to know that in some offset, far away world, there’s the knowing that through fire and poor taste,
I learned to survive.
Bathing in a field of sunflowers,
drenched in sunlight,
the only color I know so well.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Purple Plush
it’s a me thing,
because of you.
There’s a once over glance now when they approach me.
Having to analyze them before they are allowed to speak.
soft,
the way you tainted me.
Slowly let the ribbons bleed out until I couldn’t stand by myself.
lavender lines painted on my walls,
attempting to soothe my innermost thoughts,
of you.
Of what we once were,
Plum lines dancing in an infinite sky.
These lavender lines fade now,
to be wrapped in silks, fine linens of serene purples.
it’s a me thing,
because of you.
There’s a slow cry in the background now,
a symphony of a dying plum, drifting into a lavender that consumes me.
it’s comforting,
the way your toxins brought me ease,
a plush love, a cocoon of decadent almosts.
What am I to do now?
When the plums are bruised and the lavender fields stop growing.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
Blue Fever
Remembering that,
in some preserved chamber of my sanity,
is your name.
Scarred into dying birch.
Etched in some warped bench.
Call me, sometime.
know me as the sometimes you once held under a warm sky.
I’m in bed, feet wrapped in blankets and my sides are cramped up.
There’s a slight chill,
your touch lingers.
and it burns.
Hand me another drink.
something drowning in rocks,
a crystal blue, like the sea you swim in.
sinking, submerged in you.
I want to swim again,
but , to be this blue,
I cannot imagine I’d want to swim in my own sorrows.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
Pink Hotel
and behind some bitter, white picket fence
she sat
actually, she stalled.
Tapped her feet on the pavement, cuddled the curb in her ripped dress.
She wore pink in her hair,
little slivers of an innocent, chapped lip.
a dying pink.
The fence creaked with the interrupting wind.
and she stood, danced across the street.
cracked hands gripping frigid door handles,
come on in.
Torn garments, wisps of pink flying from her head,
she felt pretty in pink,
third grade, mother-just-bought-a-new-bow pretty,
innocent, dad-bought-me-glittery-shoes pretty.
Painless pretty.
Sane pretty.
No more
he-just-wants-to-see-me-bare pretty,
he-gives-me-lots-of-drinks pretty,
Worthless pretty.
Lost pretty.
Pink matter that drips onto a glass floor,
everyone can see through it,
through her.
What is it, woman?
she gave her hand to a solo cup,
So alone.
Pink drink, it’s good for you,
good to me.
To the third floor,
and lay down.
do you like the pink?
He always said I looked good with pink.
-C.M Aldecoa
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
I have excrutiating back pain from carrying double heartbreak.
It has been three months since my liberation,
three months since I stopped envisioning my nails scratching a kitchen table,
screaming out his name, my back arched.
Three months since I have kissed sanity on the lips and watched it undress me ever so gently.
I have been in bed with insanity for months now, letting it tear me open in my sleep.
For months, I have involuntarily let loneliness hold me in the night and ***** every inch of me.
Every ounce of my heart is rolling around in my throat.
It chokes me in my sleep.
I swallow my own tears,
let my arms lay limp and my legs drag behind me.
At night, when the dim moonlight dresses my skin in glow,
I rip my clothes off,
I allow the darkness to follow the moonlit floor, and watch it dance with me, all in my bareness.
I sleep,
it touches me.
I awake,
it watches me rise and take the day.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 2:27 AM UTC
Cannot lie,
I felt like a ***** when I said good-bye.
Knives cut into my flesh and I bled out in your name,
but ******* did you write me off with a mutual slip of solitude.
Your voice remained dead sea still, calm as a frozen over lake,
but so ******* cold I couldn’t feel my legs.
You told me, if it ever came to that, you’d be understanding,
so comprehensive that I wouldn’t feel a thing.
************ you were supposed to fight for me,
call my name, tell me you love me and that we can get better.
You slacked off and forgot to call me,
when I wept in my own bleeding palms,
You put me on hold.
So you could tell your friends you were too busy to have fun.
As if hearing my lips quiver through a phone was so much hell for you.
You were supposed to object to my stance,
tell me you’d get better, that you’ll remember more,
and put me first.
Maybe a let’s talk this out first, I love you too much.
Because when you answered that phone,
I still loved you.
You never fought, you let me do this so easily,
my hands shook and my ribs rattled and you said,
Okay, I get it. Have a nice life.
That’s what hurt the most, and the stabbing still lingers,
because you quit, long before that phone call.
Now, I feel bad for you,
not because I left,
but because you let me go.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC