Apr 2013
On nights like these, I get drunk on gently crafted syllables
spilling from a young woman’s lips on a dimly lit stage,
the sputtering stream of words layered by a muted burst of applause.
I wonder whether her thoughts pulled themselves together with ease,
easily folding within themselves into quantifiable amounts,
or whether she had to douse her shame in a drunken stupor before allowing those blunt words to spin from her lips onto the pale bedroom floor.
She carves the very definition of beauty into the air
as her voice rises and falls with disgust and pain to rival the moments of sweet softened whispers of happiness and love.
The very act of speaking turns into an inexplicable art from, making the very atoms of air around those lips grow heavy with implications and suppressed accusations.
Somehow, from those lips, the words **** and **** have never sounded so breath-taking.
I repeat the curses from my own lips as the worlds tumble down onto the pale bedroom floor, and I douse my shame in someone else’s words until I’m drunk enough to feel comfort and power in those four letters.
Somehow, on nights like these, my conscious closes her eyes and allows the shame to wax and wane with each wayward tear, and my heart beats faster hoping that these coarse lips of mine, by some horrid trick of the light, transform into lips like her’s.
spilling from a young woman’s lips on a dimly lit stage,
the sputtering stream of words layered by a muted burst of applause.
I wonder whether her thoughts pulled themselves together with ease,
easily folding within themselves into quantifiable amounts,
or whether she had to douse her shame in a drunken stupor before allowing those blunt words to spin from her lips onto the pale bedroom floor.
She carves the very definition of beauty into the air
as her voice rises and falls with disgust and pain to rival the moments of sweet softened whispers of happiness and love.
The very act of speaking turns into an inexplicable art from, making the very atoms of air around those lips grow heavy with implications and suppressed accusations.
Somehow, from those lips, the words **** and **** have never sounded so breath-taking.
I repeat the curses from my own lips as the worlds tumble down onto the pale bedroom floor, and I douse my shame in someone else’s words until I’m drunk enough to feel comfort and power in those four letters.
Somehow, on nights like these, my conscious closes her eyes and allows the shame to wax and wane with each wayward tear, and my heart beats faster hoping that these coarse lips of mine, by some horrid trick of the light, transform into lips like her’s.
