you swore, with every space between your teeth, that his words would not let the halves of your heart split vertically or that when conversation existed in your two minds that you’d wash your hands. he kept his lips sealed, washed you away from his mouth as he lingered on the tip of your tongue. the time he crossed his fingers with his own instead of yours crossed your mind a time or two, but by the time his shoulders carried less weight than yours, you realized that over was already in his vocabulary and that you were just another bad word his mother told him to never say aloud. you were never said aloud, you were never spoken of when his mother asked him why and you were never given the chance to come up–you were an ellipses catching wind of the empty piece of paper. you were never supposed to cross paths again, cross t’s or meet each other’s eyes. his momma would always say that you had the biggest eyes she’d ever seen–something not quite doe-eyed, but nothing close to dull. his momma knows best, as all momma’s do, and she told him, “son, she is…”
his mind never strayed from you, at one time in your lives.
she is, she is, she is–
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
his eyes were a dusty brown
that made her feel euphoric
and maybe that's why she
became addicted to ******
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
was there a time in
your day when you
thought about me
the way you thought
about the missing
pieces in your heart
that i couldn't
completely fill?
was i just the sketch
of your latest masterpiece
that you forgot to hang on
your wall because you
couldn't find the right shades
of red to paint with?
was your shade of red so far
away from the color of my
blood that you were passed
satisfied when you tore down
the walls of my house just to
fill your paint can with the
river of my body?
you had no mercy when you
took me to bed, i had no self-
esteem to tell you that i couldn't—
i wish i couldn't—but you wouldn't
have given me a chance—not with
the way your eyes spoke of false
love that i believed to be true.
i bared myself to you; i fell
asleep in the crook of your arm
to the way your heart beat
thinking that it beat that way for
me—but it wasn't for me. i was
your added layer of skin that you
peeled off when you left the bed—
i was the metallic mistake that
began to rust over when you hung me
on your clothes line; droplets of rain
covered me—touched—me more than
you ever did.
your spit was the acid rain that
fired my flesh to bone when you
barely contained your anger; your
hands left prints of un-medicated
discipline on the mounds of my
lower back—outlines of ugly
paintings covered the canvas of my
body; my body was not a work of
art and, yet, you used the pallet of
your fingers to make improvements
on the faulty machine that could
barely function throughout the day
and weeped into pillows at night.
you depicted the silence as a detailed
symphony that somehow only played
for you.
they say lovers never forget the
creations they make together—
we barely laughed and you never
slept and i never left my eyes open
for too long; i was afraid you'd deem
them capturable—hold them with
your rough hands and splash the color
on paper for your own amusement;
you could see the pain in my eyes, but
you never bothered to clean up the mess
in them—you sat there with a brush in
your hand as you watched the light rot
away.
my eyes were never opened for
too long for i was afraid you
would take away my sight and add
it to another painted apparition that held
a girl in iron chains—the blood in my
veins colored deceit in the lanes of my
ribcage; i could barely hold in a breath—
a moan, a sigh, a whisper—when your
hands took apart my limbs one by one—
i could barely keep my eyes open
when the light began to fade, little
splotches of my fingers touched your
arm and for once i knew what it felt
like to be touched in a way that pained
my senses with an abundance of fleeting
ecstasy—
the reckless complexity of your fingers held
the love i harbored in my blood,
but my blood wasn't the right
shade of red because i was just
an outline for your latest master-
piece and i didn't make it
to your wall because
you didn't have the
decency to ***** me against it.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
you
made
me
**f
o
r
g
e
t**
and
you
made
me
*r
e
m
e
m
b
e
r.*
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
i think the bindings
of my spine have
finally concaved
into tiny screws to
drill away the tattered
scabs of my marred
stitches into the skin
of my mouth.
i wasn't supposed to
s c a t t e r
this way.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
do you remember when we use to play the nights away and find comfort in each others arms—now it's just a cold and desolate day with the sun set in my eyes and rays in my blood stream; and when i'm alone, i can still feel your eyes set on destruction as they stare me down into a little war path of lusted rage. it was you that held me when sweat matted my skin in drops of rain, when blood coated my lips in passionate *** it was you that varnished my skin into the glass tiles when i rocked back and forth in the middle of my bath tub waiting for the ground to descend into nothingness.
and now it's you, that disbands my brain like an array of dying stars in the sky we once painted together with our trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. and now, it's me; it's me that stands in the middle of the street with blurry cars running by like angry lions in heat, fighting for the heat of the moment because they're too ******* stupid to eat their way through the decayed animals that are too far gone into the wilderness of disaster—and with their bones like melted clay in their stomachs, i stand in the middle of a highway with my hands thrown aside like a cape of darkness.
was it that your were too tired of spending contagious sad nights with me that you had to pack your stuff in a tiny suitcase that could barely fit the words I’m sorry into the brackets of their shoulders. maybe it was the way i scratched your back during steamy tales in between the sheets that scared away the words i love you from your mouth—or the way i had to pick up the pieces of the faulty mirror for you to even utter my name from your rocky eyes. i think it was the stitches in my marred bones that threw you off guard; they were too weak to carry your ego on felted silks because while you thought art was an object of disguise. i thought it was an object demanding to be felt through brittle streaks of dull colors.
it was when you shouted at my writings for feeling too much when i whispered that my words were messages in disguise because our feelings were too much to handle—and that’s when you broke the handle to the cracked, wooden door that held more blood than the inside of our hollow scar tissue. it was then when i realized that—
my fingers hurt from unbuttoning your skin, unzipping your veins into two split pieces of heated metal that slice my wrists open with uncertainty. it was the lines that the scars created that dismembered my wrists from my hands and clawed the nails off with broken bites of disintegrated love into my knuckles—when the cemented wall hit my fist with action-packed wrath of fervent wisps of outpoured whiskey into your mouth, into my breath, into your eyes, and into my clenching veins is when i knew the nights we spent were only tales of childish foreplay—heavy innuendos of vapid, misused paint on cracked paintbrushes and oil-based pens.
i’m tired too. i’m tired of my bleeding fingers used to scatter your drops of paint onto the pallet of my skin while i had to sew the seams of my veins into a cross so maybe I could find a way to God while my God was too busy fondling the idea of pain into my eyes. i’m tired of my oil-based pen handling my hand with sacred demons barking at the nails stuck in my brain while my brain fights for some sort of unasked forgiveness that i didn’t know i needed.
it was then that i realized that the milky ways in your troubled soul carried out the stars in my name—that’s what sold me the first night we met—only, i wish we hadn’t met.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC