Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.

Do you see her?
Yea, I'm sure you do.
She's the one with legs to her chin,
and sky blue eyes formed to whisk men away.
Her mind is like a city bus, receiving many different
styles of ideas, and taking them to new places.
She understands what she sees.
Oh, did I mention,
her love is strong and secure,
like concrete pillars underneath the longest bridges!
"The perfect package."
I said with certainty.
Precisely..

I fell in love with her...

She tore the very core of my heart into pieces.
Threw me out of her car window like a piece of
used, unwanted trash.
Lied and left as quickly as she so flawlessly arrived.
If I had fallen next to her, she would have stomped
on my face, and smeared in whatever happened
to be on the bottom of her shoe at that moment.

Do you see me?
I'm sure that you can't.
I hide my frail, broken emotions inside.
My hollow earth suit is all you see,
because, I won't be crushed again
by someones
false advertisements.