teenagers die violently at 20
it's like watching a car crash on TV
with the sound turned off
their heads hit the pavement
blood and thoughts spread everywhere.
your vocal chords lose strength at 20
your voice become lower and softer.
your knees stop getting scraped at 20
and now they hurt from the inside
your skin clears but your back aches
and sleeps comes easier but hardly ever leaves
your heartbeat slows down at 20
and it never ever speeds up again.
a fire burning deep inside you dies at 20
black clouds creep in and the rain smothers it to death
water seeps into the ground and buries the ashes and eventually
flowers bloom and trees grow roots
and your soul finds a quiet corner to settle in.
life stops at 20
we lose hunger and blood thirst and courage and alcohol tolerance and friendships and the shape of our hips and the strength of our spirits and the ability for senseless romance
but we find peace
and wine and gardening and understanding of our mothers and baking and quiet love and vitamin-filled sunbeams.
life stops at 20
and then it starts again
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 6:14 PM UTC
these days i paint my toenails light purple
and get lost watching the light through my own hair while riding the bus in the morning
these days the lights stay on
the blinds stay closed
and my throat feels a bit less tight
we kiss in all doorways, not just the one that takes me out
i feel my fingers buzzing for all the right reasons
i feel my skin drying and cooling against warm sheets, not the backseat of the taxi that takes me home
these days i'm finding windows are better than mirrors
and early mornings can be better secret keepers than midnights
and i'm learning a thing or two about softness
these days i fight heavy limbs and a tired soul to try and stay awake
just
a bit
longer
cause i'm scared i might miss something
and the thing is, i actually might
these days reality is giving my dreams a pretty good fight
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
pavement cracks under his feet
when he walks.
smoke falls from his hair
when he moves.
his hands are made of stone
his veins are dripping mud
his eyes are black and blown.
he's a walking black hole
******* all the light of the world in
breathing in warmth and fire
breathing out dust and ashes.
but
he's still young in the crinkles by his smiling eyes
in the high pitch of his screams
in the smallest curls of his hair.
but
he's aged in the purple under his eyes
in the tilt of his disappointed mouth
in the rough tips of his fingers
in the weight of his stone-carved bones.
he is many things
and looks like so many more
he is big
and he is beautiful
and the earth cracks under
his feet
and the flowers die in his wake.
and still
he swears he's bathed in darkness
but still made of sun.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC