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sophia Jul 2020
paperback spine.
you have a paperback spine.
it is creased with liquid white.
liquid moon.
i trace my piano fingers
to feel your used.
the used is how the white came about.
the stories you've lived and told.
you wouldn't tell me that it was
but i've already read it.
your paperback spine.
there was bad.
and there was good.
you've seen colder winters than i.
i've asked before if you regret
your paperback spine.
if it becomes unbearable to show
vulnerability as a color.
as the liquid moon
dripping down each crevice
you said no
because honesty
was what made the liquid moon white on your back.
you were proud of that.
and i didn't ask anymore.
sophia May 2020
whenever i think about you,
i always remember when
we danced in your front yard
at 9 pm
in front of boys
in front of your dad
in front of people
i didn't even know
and just didn't care.
we just didn't care
how bad our moves were
or how awkward
the stares were.
we just didn't care
how grainy the music was
on your broken phone speakers.
and of all the memories i have of you,
this one's my favorite.
and one i'll remember
with a smile.
because even though you told me
you didn't need me anymore,
i will still remember
but maybe
with a touch
of bitter sadness.
sophia May 2020
whenever i feel content
with it just being me
and God in the same room,
i know i have succeeded.
sophia May 2020
when a friend becomes a stranger
and bitterness always lingers
when the sweet becomes sour
and all the brave seem to do is cower
when a heart breaks and heals
and all the skin can do is steel
be prepared to scream
you can win no other way
if you don't have a battle cry,
fighting as if you're
prepared to die.
sophia May 2020
You could throw me in a cage
and grate my skin from my bones.
You could eat my heart raw
in front of me.
You could let a lion ravage me,
tear me apart, piece by piece
with my ****** ashes
soaking in ocean water.
You could feast
on my madness
but I will not be truly scared
unless you take my tongue
and my pen.
sophia May 2020
it's the anchored sound of piano tiles
by eagerly peaceful fingers

it's the pedal and it's sound
under the pressure of beauty

when all has been stripped of
it's the sound of tiles and pedals

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