Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
She was sick of hero's,
of the boys who tried to save her from herself.  
Her world had become a constant blur
of innocent liplocks and hair neatly parted,
of well-made beds and early curfews,
of speed limits and no trespassing signs.  
She was trapped within the parameters of goodness,
condemned to the ideas of sweetness.  
She wanted to succumb to something,
to submit herself to the darkness of a boy who didn't want to be fixed.  It was a realization she had the night she saw him,
truly saw him,
a boy who had been a stranger in a bar
and weeks later became the fixation she couldn't manage without.  

One night he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom,
soft blue light illuminating his face,
nestled behind his nose
and under his lashes.  
The crease of a smug grin forming at the corners of those lips.  
He knew exactly what he did
and it tempted her all the more.  
He was a villain, a cold blooded creature, a criminal.  
His mouth reminded her of the demons in all of her nightmares,
the hooded figures reaching out to grasp her hands
and pull her in with only the gentlest touch
to let her think she was still in control.  
Those haunted sheets and his pouted lips
were enough to keep her stirring until dawn.  
He hadn't even touched her,
but he managed to keep her squirming under the thought of him.  
He was salt in her eyes and sugar on her tongue.  
He had shown her the true meaning of corruption.

And then it was over.  
She wasn't sure they were done,
but she left anyway.  
He screamed and told her to do what she wanted,
but she chose to live.  
His tousled hair had become too messy for her,
his temper didn't exclude her anymore.  
She was not weak,
she was terrified.  
She was drowning.  
And when the sea had finally come for her,
he didn't follow.  
The swells pulled her deep beneath the surface,
invaded her lungs
and the strain on her heart felt like his fingers across her ribs.  
He let the seas foam lap against his toes
and then watched her foam at the mouth,
her pupils dilated,
skin pale.  
She was swallowed by the swift currents,
consumed by bursts of blue,
his eyes no longer defined the color.
He wasn't there.  
Those nights spent over the bathroom sink,
perched on the fire escape,
hidden beneath sheets,
he wasn't there.  
She knew the feeling all too well
and that things lose their shine under water.  
But at least she had found a home in the abyss.
I would very much appreciate criticism.
There's a lull blanketing the lot,
vacancy consuming the once lively scattering
of girls in pale skirts strolling beneath street lamps,
boys in thin cotton tee's sending smirks over shoulders,
shopping cart clatter,
squeaking door handles
and hollow laughter.  
It's all retreated with the sunlight,
turned to low mumblings,
distant car doors,
crunched gravel growing quieter,
silently slinking away.  

All of the promises there wasn't enough time to keep.  

Trees sway within ranges of headlights,
casting slivers of shadow from across the highway.  
It's all so hollow.  
The clock tolls closer to morning
and it's clear there will be nothing here,
in this lot,

The first breaths of September begin to exhale.
This sleepy town is wide awake now that you’re gone.
The blur of strangers and the haze of sunsets are constant.
There are no dreamy midnight strolls.
The silence is fleeting.
I hear everything, but the sound of my own pulse.
There are no restful hearts and restless hands.
I cannot stop time anymore.
I cannot dream here again.
The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.  
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.  
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.  
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.
You run from your shadow
as if it's the darkest part of you.  
You carry your rosary through bone yards
as if it can save you from your demons.  
You tell me it isn't always about love,
that you are not tragically beautiful,
that your suffering cannot be romanticized.  
The stinging does not always come from
the imprint of thick palms left behind by lost lovers.
There is not always the devilish grin under a freckled nose
or skin under cotton.
There is not always a He
and you are not a sad poem
written by a
I'd rather be where you are.
I'd rather be held by rough hands,
pale fingers upon flushed cheeks.
Make me new again.
You're no stranger darling,
but you can be who ever you want for now
and I never liked my name until you hummed it
beneath blue sheets and bedposts.
I'd rather you remember us
by the way we tug and fumble
over belt loops and knit stockings,
over neck ties and shirt clasps,
over thin cotton and ripped lace,
over me
under you
under sheets
under moonlight
under ceiling fans and stars
under scrutiny and love is all we
understood and love is
under appreciated and
underrated and maybe now you're
under me and I'm
under your spell and I hope this never ends.

I hope it's never over.
Brushing lips
Cotton rips
Swiveled hips
Who needs relationships?
Next page