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Blue Orchid Mar 2019
He asked me to speak the TRUTH
And I yelled my refusal
With words I never learned to utter
Because my teeth had already discovered
How to staple my tongue
with LIES and half truths
So he thought me how
To lay down my confessions
With carefully constructed syllables
That screamed "revised edition"
And everytime I spoke them
I imagined novels oozing life
With characters that seemed more genuine
Than the company I chose to surround myself,

So the next time he asked me
to speak the truth
I opened my lips
And told him to put the words in my mouth
Because he was much better than i
At crafting FiCTION
Blue Orchid Feb 2019
Perhaps this letter should have started with an 'i am sorry'; an apology for all the time I've frightened you for my life,  for pushing your mind to assumptions that your words were no consolation,  for chosing the momentary pleasure of that which will eventually deteriorate my body.

An apology for turning a deaf ear to your plea and the tears you've wasted on them. Maybe an explanation that doesn't leave you more confused than when I was defensive, refusing to share my depth. An excuse for all those times I've used humor to shadow the perfect fleeting instances we've shared.

I'm sorry
But i'm not
I'm sorry for letting you down
I'm not for leaning so heavily on things that werent you
I'm sorry I've neglected your care
I'm not for taking away your hope that perhaps things will be better, perhaps things will change and I will be, once more,  the pillar you can lean on
I'm sorry for being the vortex in your existent
But i'm not for your choice to stay
I'm sorry for this letter
I'm even more sorry that you'll get to read it
Blue Orchid Feb 2019
He broke his wings on Thursday
Not this Thursday though
But on the year he decided,
‘It would be better to fly than to float’
He shattered his wings
And watches the crowed descend
Upon his pieces
And feed from his scattered remains
They put him back together on Monday
But left him with rags for cloths
After scavenging his pockets for gold,
The threads that held his bones
Cricked in agony
So he limped to a house he seldom considered a home
He never remembered Tuesday
For it was a partner to a murderous Monday
That put the scars on his skin
And the shamble in his walk
He signed of Wednesday to Friday
Just because it asked
And because giving away was his specialty
For taking from him had been customary.
He groomed his ruined wings on Saturday
Getting ready for a Sunday that would put him on display
Above a pillar of hazy gazes
And wilted roses
Since beauty came before sentiment
As the eyes would never see
Beyond the glamour he lacked
And the weight that hunched his back
Thus he waited on Thursdays and his next resolve
Just to watch the crowed fall upon his empty alcove
Blue Orchid Feb 2019
I am an addict
Of simple words and honest scars
Of timeless tales
And books with torn covers
I am an addict
I snort minimum wage story lines
That make everyone love the underdog
And create imaginary villains
From the old women next door
I fill my niddle with 6 lonely hours
Spent on the edge of a rooftop
No one bothers to look up to
I am an addict
I made my dollhouse from cigarette covers
I didn't have the heart to throw away
I never smoked those cigarettes
I befriended them
I made them my companions
And audiences of a one-women show
I am an addict
Perhaps even,  THE addict
Blue Orchid Jan 2019
His father told him this world was his Petri dish. He placed him in front of mirror and showed him what his specimen had been. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the stale master bedroom, just stale for him though, rather vibrant in its light violet shade, and stomped at the floor with the most primal instincts. He beat his chest and grew to be too big until there was nothing but a shadow too large to escape from.
 
His father threw journals at his face, once which were filled with blank pages and told him to make good on his words. ‘Respect your women.’ He was ordered on the days the mood was as cheerful as a cloudless sky and witnessed his mother’s tears on the bathroom tiles most of the days it was not. The first sight of alcohol came from the cellar that was utterly prohibited, accompanied by the lecture of a sober self. 

The son told himself he was nothing but a specimen, the clay that was to be molded by the hands of the creator. So he studied footsteps and made good on those blank journals, cultivating a life that was as sour as the beer he snuck in to his room.  He waited for approvals that would never come, hoping against all odds that one day he would be counted worthy, perhaps even, worthwhile. He sculpted out of himself a man he detested, one he could not runaway from no matter the number of times he had tried to escape under cover of night.

He was, as expected, his father’s son, living under the roof of another son that had chosen to bend under the shadow of a prior father, unaware of a cycle that lasted generation.

He was his father’s son even though  he never wanted to be anything but himself.
Blue Orchid Jan 2019
When I was 8 I broke my indext finger
On the left side
Few years before that I was in a fire accident
I still have patches of scars to remind me of it
Little here and there
A fading one on my belly
On my 18th birthday I realized I had more scars than I should
More of those I couldn't poke at with my fingers
Irrevocably deeper though
I'm 20 now
But I feel 201
Perhaps I look it too
Not when your eyes skim the surface of my skin
But when they're connected with mine
And the age of whipping moments have made them grotesque
Battered beyond recognition

I used to have a best friend when I was 4
A childes mind made it seem he would be my only friend
Forever and then for the years to come
He towered over the mean kids at school
And waved good night
From his window when I went to bed
When I turned 12 I couldn't recall what this friend looked like
The years had scrubbed his silhouette from my thoughts
Only the scrambled pieces of our endeavors remained
Like the time of the fire accident
Where I had to sleep on a mattress layed on the floor
and he had spent days on the cold tile next to me
He would wipe away my fearful tears
And tell me it would be alright
That I was still pretty
The prettiest he had ever seen

On my 18th birthday I remembered him
And his inoccent words
When such things could be spoken with out dire consequence
When me being called pretty was a concept I looked forward to
on my 18th birthday I broke my curfew
And stayed past midnight
I broke promises
And made bad choices
On my 18th birthday
I lived for the years I couldn't
I took a breath and many more
That weren't scorched with fear of being branded
When I turned 18 I made promises children make to themselves
Come true
For me and the thoughts I never let myself reflect
Now i'm 20
And I wonder if I only lived until I was 18
Blue Orchid Jan 2019
What absolute lethergy
A facade made of sharp smiles
What an inadequacy
Trap between fierce walls
Of a want that had grown tentacles
And transformed itself in to such
Unbiased, raw need
A need neither he nor I
Neither the space we made between us
Nor the breath we shared
Could ever manage to fill
And thus began the story of our crippeld hearts
Though I promise you
Yours had healed much better than mine
For you had new fingers
Plastering bandages over the hole
I made when removing me was necessary
Of such great importance, it was
New delicate fingers fumbled
With your fragile heart
And your heart, bleeding as it was
Let them cuddle it
I do not blame it
Though mine sores from bruises left untended
From blows and punctures
I never let others mend
For with out the sting
What will I have left
To remind me of those bitter sweet
Perhpas more bitter than sweet
Times I had spent stitching you
In to my very being
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