too safely tucked under too neatly folded skin, as if it will never be worn again.
grow out of it, it was said. i might i can would i?
these embroidered butterflies on the white blouse wings- fluttering, putrid thoughts like a runaway train no destination, and no hint of stopping afraid that i'd spit out words i was afraid to say
a spaghetti-strapped tank top with nothing left under my sleeves and calls were answered and among echoes i lay and try to recall who i was the day before
bold prints, too bold you know what they say, a leopard never changes its spots. true, i wished. and if i could catch these fleeting moments, i would and i would tell you that it was real
in nothing i felt most comfortable and nothing i felt no one will stay not even i.
drew maps to places i would bring no one to and out of the sins committed i wished someone plundered these mounted trophies i'd created and soon destroy the belief that these goodnight kisses i find in the morning were planted by the taxidermist
some days, i don't do my laundry. i know it's simple, one two three. instead, eight nine ten steps, pick up this little black dress.
it's uncomfortable, but it's not.
let me please my demons once more.
after all, they are the only ones i could speak to after every one has went to bed.
depression is a little black dress i'd outgrown- too safely tucked under too neatly folded skin, as if it will never be worn again.