I'm trying to balance a bottle on my head
As I lay in bed with my stolen red
At first it's easy, it stays there peacefully
Resting in comfort above my brow
But now it's beginning to slip
The liquid shakes and falls on my face
Look a magpie!
See it fly!
What's that thing in the sky?
The clouds are heaving moody
And the stars are begging
It hurts to breathe, can’t see can’t write can’t read
Just let be,
And we’ll be together again
It's about poetry
her skin is jaundiced, quite like the color of the sky before a storm
if you look at her long enough you can almost smell the petrichor on her skin.
her ribs are not unlike the rungs of a ladder
(climb if you dare, but the fall is a long one with no end in sight).
delicate fingers have been burned at the touch of acid and bones have been made brittle.
her nails: jagged, each impacted with crescent moons of soil.
the digging is ceaseless.
she is searching for something she will never find, for something that never was
yet it beacons like a lighthouse on the horizon
a sign of safety but blinding if you sneak a closer look.
she slinks along the edge of her unremitting chasm,
dancing with the devil throughout the evening,
but the night draws on and she comes dangerously close to stepping on his toes.
her rhythm is all wrong, the metronome from above is feeding her lies,
but she is greedy and devours them all.
the gnawing inside her returns.
the gnawing inside her takes over,
her eyes begin to wilt as the burden of seeing only in grey engulfs them.
to sleep she goes under the spell of the guilt washing over her like the sweet, sticky air of the summer.
— The End —