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scarPoems
This is the funeral dress that was stapled into my shoulders And crucified On the huge hill cross, where clowns once emerged from cotton smog - Where bricks smashed foreheads, and we fingerpainted the sidewalk with each other's unruly blood Where the Summer sleeps off a failed suicide attempt Two years ago you put a hole in my head But this is not the hole in my head (present and aching) This is the black funeral dress I stapled into my own shoulders The one that was worn too many days too soon We are all infinitely bound between her death and a single desire for a boy with destructive ghosts living beneath his fingernails I keep telling strangers about the way your jaw shakes after midnight I keep telling strangers about the night I scattered glass shards in between my box spring mattress and the trundle bed I keep telling strangers about your porcelain knuckles - the way you kiss each one individually before punching me in the throat There's a rage inside my head Disease spreads like forrest fire and floral secrets Dead girls dance in October, rest in November Goodnight
0
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
There Are Dead Girls Dancing Outside My Window (I am sleeping, you are gone)
This is the funeral dress that was stapled into my shoulders And crucified On the huge hill cross, where clowns once emerged from cotton smog - Where bricks smashed foreheads, and we fingerpainted the sidewalk with each other's unruly blood Where the Summer sleeps off a failed suicide attempt Two years ago you put a hole in my head But this is not the hole in my head (present and aching) This is the black funeral dress I stapled into my own shoulders The one that was worn too many days too soon We are all infinitely bound between her death and a single desire for a boy with destructive ghosts living beneath his fingernails I keep telling strangers about the way your jaw shakes after midnight I keep telling strangers about the night I scattered glass shards in between my box spring mattress and the trundle bed I keep telling strangers about your porcelain knuckles - the way you kiss each one individually before punching me in the throat There's a rage inside my head Disease spreads like forrest fire and floral secrets Dead girls dance in October, rest in November Goodnight
scar
Written by
scar
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
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