this is how she writes
slanted and sideways
too full of liquor and love
and longing. she smears
it into the walls of her
heart, paints the insides
of her skull - and yet,
everything remains
blackened. the warmth
never laces the cold,
never undoes the laces
of her desperate skin.
her bones crack, fingers
splitting like broken
tree limbs, the floor
looks something like
a ****** scene - decimated
forests and bloodless
bodies of all the boys
whoever used lies to love.
she is an empty house,
abandoned, old and aching.
tiptoes up the stairs of
her broken spine, wondering
how her front-door soul
could have wandered
into such a lost and lonely
place. her bones crack,
the walls shudder. this is
life, this life is an island
and her hands are sinking
ships - hard enough to
wound, soft enough to
never fill. just like her
insides. just like her outsides.