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 Jun 19 Kalliope
Mélissa
Here ─
In the loquacious silence
Of the white noise in my mind
I knew I wasn't present

My mother was near ─
With her mind withdrawn
Absent to some place
That dated from ages ago

My father would disappear ─
Only to continue being far
Once he was back
Now travelling into the future


And I have gathered a life without
Now
Right
Here
Your skin is made of glass— cut by a tear
that  rolls down your cheek, splitting the
good and the wicked parts...
You kissed two versions of me... as we all
live switching roles— mirror for mirror,
mouth for mouth.

And when a lover kisses, you kiss back
like a reflex, when they get close enough,
part of your character becomes theirs—
and it loudly reflects....
I breathe when you breathe; I’m so
close, I forget whose lungs I’m in.

Like a spoon of cinnamon, just a taste
of you burns — always so hard to
swallow, but I do...
And our days spent—have me so
spent; spending myself into you,
sending everything I’ve got.

All of my kisses—are sent
All your heat— passionate scent
And somehow that scent gives
me nosebleeds...
That’s the kind of passion you
leave in the air.

The first time in the morning,
I kiss you like it’s the last time—
because it could be...
Sugar lips— enough to last a time;
pull a little closer, let me drown in
your stare —  I want to see what’s
lurking in the shadows of your eyes—
could be your wild side. Might be mine.

I take you late nights, for some extras
you come like a few sides—and I
measure you with my eyes...
You're such a grand size; I can’t take
it anymore— the closer we get, the
thinner it feels; the glass— it cracks
the further we grow apart.
They told us we are free,
Capable of changing all we see,
Masters of our fate,
Sculptors of tomorrow,
With tools made of choice
And maps etched in will
It’s never too late to find our voice.

They handed us mirrors,
Called them windows,
Taught us to vote,
A choice in the clownshow,
A chorus of masks all painted for show,
Just noise in a system too broken to grow.

We scroll past hunger,
Swipe through war,
Stream genocide like a genre
And call it being informed.
“You saw. You know. You are responsible,” they say,
As if we even have a hand to play.

But we are tethered
To systems too vast,
To machines too smooth,
To powers too cloaked.
Each of us a droplet,
Told we are the sea.
Told we are free.

Meanwhile, the giants feed,
Corporations gorge on grief,
Turn crisis into content,
They market empathy,
Sell back our outrage,
Anything to keep us engaged.

Work, once sacred,
Just motion now.
We turn cogs that turn nothing
And call it survival.

There is too much,
Too many truths,
Too many hands reaching from fires
We cannot put out.
We are choked by abundance,
Starving for sense.

So let the bombs rain.
Let the sky split open.
If collapse is the only honesty left—
Let it fall.
Let it fall
And save us from this pain.
We scroll past hunger,
Swipe through war,
Stream genocide like a genre
And call it being informed.
“You saw. You know. You are responsible,” they say,
As if we even have a hand to play.
 Jun 19 Kalliope
Angel
Ticking.
Time is running out.
I am losing control.

The hands spin faster—
I scramble
to keep it together,
to silence the chaos.

But the ringing in my ears
drowns every thought.
That incessant,
unforgiving:

Tick
  Tick
    Tick

It drives me mad,
twists my mind into knots.
I can’t breathe.
I’m running
out of
time—

I...
 Jun 19 Kalliope
Stephanie
Hello,
My name is Steph
And I am a domestic violence survivor.

I remember telling a Social Worker
That I was just collecting evidence
For my own ****** trial.

There were too many days
Where I truly expected
To die.

Once upon a time,
Common things like white trucks
And orange safety gear
And every single noise
Sent a shiver of panic
Down my spine.

Now I think about it less,
More like when a student
Tells me about her situation
And that she feels trapped,
Just like I did.

I guess this is what we call
Healing.
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