You reek like a poison.
You are not pretty.
There is not a faint whiff
of almond tracing the
path of your putrid
perfume
—a crumpled cookie from
the bottom of
Grandmother’s tin.

The apple doesn’t
fall far from the tree,
and you are the rat
succumbed to its curse.

Although the vermin
is you, she is the prey.
Praying to get away
from the suffocating
scent of your racing
heart.

Obey her. Because
without her, you are
nothing.
You are not a diamond
littered in a field of
whimsical confetti.
You are not the gold
plated juice fallen
from the apricot,
sliced open
solely for the pleasure
of your mortifying mind.

You are invisible.
Looking for a reason to
exist. Looking to pass
your pain onto an
unsuspecting soul.
An object. A doll.

You want to be the
air which courses
through her veins,
the thing that makes
her weak
but Peaches,
you
are the weak one.

A puff of smoke
doesn’t do it
anymore, or maybe
it’s in your jeans,
but the picture
is clear.

You are sick
of being pestered.
Terrified of being
labeled as something
you’re not.
You have a headache,
but all she wants to do
is look up at the stars
without the sky falling
down on her.

She wants to go to
sleep at night without
the rats clawing at
her covers.

She wants to breathe.