this gritty, gravel street looks more like a spine
in the cast of the blinding white sun
that causes mirages to appear every next step, tripping you.
the rib bones lead to houses, and in each one resides
an empty brain, filled with
untainted, young ambition, that has never met the dark cloaked stranger
called "failure". They are all tied in with the central lungs, breathing
in unison, as one, programmed from the start to play
their destined part.
Dreams develop and gather, threatening to spill
out of their heads like tear-filled eyes. They all step
out of their houses as one,
not realizing the bones they believed to be their foundations
are all broken.
Red, raw skin from trying to wash
away last year's acetone fingerprints
littered on my body. We were born
as paper air planes in spring,
destined to crash
at the end of winter in a landslide,
colliding with the base of the calendar
that hung around my neck like a noose.
Brittle bones with no marrow: I am physically,
emotionally, mentally, spiritually
That was last year.
I'm trying to learn to be more introspective
without looking inwards through the barrel
of a gun. Last I checked my bruised and bloodied
heart was dangling out a second story window
tempting me to jump out and save it.
I'm done pretending now.
My paper plane may have crashed
but at least I'm on the ground.
...here's to being better, braver people in 2k15.
Listen for just a moment. I know you don't
have the patience but if you don't listen
now I might not have the guts later. Look at me
in the eye. If that doesn't work we'll turn the lights off. I am desperate
to unsay the things I hurled
at you. When we fight I feel cold
and my voice feels far away, as if I have no control
my vocal chords might as well strangle me
it would hurt less
than your rejection
after another fight.
I'm just trying to sort out my brain.
Midnight: I'm thinking of the things I forgot to do during my day. Schedule appointments. Be an adult. Return phone calls. Breathe.
1am: I'm thinking of how much I ate. It makes me sick.
2am: Fifty jumping jacks... then fifty more. Repeat process until I break a sweat. Pause only if I might wake other residents of house.
3am: There are little weights on the backs of my eyelids, and there are little figures pulling my eyelashes down, down until the curtain of skin and purple veins is shut. I struggle against it anyways. My face feels fat and slightly numb and my stomach is as empty as my head.
4am: I discover nightmares when you're awake can happen. The shadowy images of memories past, buried in the dark caves of my skull, fly at me like lunatic ghosts. I cannot **** them.
5am: My stomach growls. I am always always always thinking about food.
6am: I still might get some sleep.
7am: Or maybe not.
... inspired by many-a-nights of restlessness. It doesn't make any more sense to me, either. Sweet dreams
and i am scared you will see me
how i see myself.
you probably saw me
its 2015, and i'm still learning how to socialize without feeling like a fool every time i breathe
I stitch myself back together with thread from my past
in the hopes that it will lead me back
to a time when I could fix things. But I am not
a hero, so don’t mistake people like me for Theseus in the dark
when really the labyrinth is your mind
and the minotaur is yourself.
hi there. constructive criticism... is a great thing.
— The End —