renee-warth
American
Words are the substance of what we are. They can inflict pain, make people feel lost, and hold people together. I’ve never been one to express myself successfully at the first try. Words tend to slip through my fingers within seconds when I speak, but to physically create patterns with ink and paper is lighting.
I spent days waiting for a
creative surge.
Now i'm stuck in wordless purgatory.
I have 27 mosquito bites on my feet.
All going to scar.
That makes for 31 scars between the two,
but who is counting?
I told her I wasn't a good person.
I don't know if she believed in me or ignorance.
I love her but curious killed the cat,
and murdered me with a 12 gauge shotgun.
I can't decide if she notices the new patterns
written in my skin or
politely doesn't ask.
I'm pretty sure I'm not depressed.
I don't see my scars as overly cliched battle
wounds from myself.
They are the mark of intrigue.
One time, in a letter, she told me she kissed them,
as if I didn't notice.
I couldn't find the romance in the gesture, only
embarrassment.
We are both aware, please just ask, and I will
gladly tell you what I did to get them.
Because I'm not a good person.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
I am uninspired and lazy.
too jeered to fall in love.
too bored for ***
Blatantly tainted by privilege.
It isn’t as if I’ve become coated
in self served depression but
emotionally exhausted from experience.
I am modern romanticism
disguised by femme fatal.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Everything is ****
Creative death by consumer.
Fall in love with me.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
I never seem to let myself stay happy for long.
But in this moment, wrapped in a sweater
that has been dunked in the thick smell of
charred logs,
apple cider,
and,
whiskey
I feel my feet slip off the ground
and into elation.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
It is in these moments late at night that I evaluate your caress,
the way your hands shape my body
and how
your lips criticize my secrets,
in what was meant to be acceptance.
I lay drowning in my own misunderstood falsified memories.
Trying to recall the wake of your voice
only to find a week hum.
How is it that I feel haunted by you when you
are still
here.
It is in these moments that I attempt to make myself a martyr
when in fact,
I already tied your noose.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
People write poems about loss
How it rips them apart,
and leaves them restless.
Losing you was the best thing
that could happen to me.
Repugnant charm.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Each night alone I become lost
I drown in a sea of blankets
and a small mattress that seems
far too big.
I toss and I turn
I flip the pillow over
I pull more blankets on
I push folded laundry off
However much I try
I cannot seem to replicated
how the bed feels filled with you.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
From every moment
Inside and outside of me
Its always been you
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
An acid washed version of myself.
Worn and torn.
The fatal girl.
Everyone tries, no one buys.
Passed around,
lost aroma.
Terminally insecure.
Pushing towards nothing.
Striving for the unattainable.
Nothing is actualized.
The skin fades,
exposing deep blue veins.
They seep to the surface.
Vulnerable flesh.
Anticipating the sharp tongue
to **** from the inside out.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 1:03 AM UTC
His fingers trace my skin.
The white patterns
permanently
fashioned in.
Uneasy breathing.
The pang of curiosity
fills the room.
I silently plead him not to.
He asks anyway.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC