Jun 2014
Wishful thinking is a term made up specifically to describe the feeling I got when I first saw you.
Nuclear fallout tries so hard to mimic the way your hands feel on everyone that isn't me.
Concentration camps hold all the parts of me that weren't made in your image.
I forced myself to go a day without holding anything that felt like your hands & so I went a day without burning my palms or cutting my fingertips.
Your apologies felt a lot like the ground felt in Hiroshima, I'm sure you meant to feign sincerity well enough for me to surrender to your destruction.
A pistol bullet travels anywhere from 800-900 mph, and I'm sure someone could find a way to make that poetic.
I could compare your love to a labyrinth, but I'd rather pretend that you were as enigmatic as the backs of my hands.
The smell of burning rubber reminds me of all the times your skin touched my bed sheets.
Your concern is as tangible as my nightmares; I hope you take that in a way that hurts you the most.
**** me so hard that I forget how it feels to be forgotten.
I hope I'm the girl your mother warned you about.
I'm a compilation of all my mistakes and I just hope that I burn your palms when you hold me but I also hope that you never let go; I'm the embodiment of every dilemma that's ever been vocalized.
Maybe one day you'll hear my name and lose your ability to walk.
Your name sounds a lot like the first few minutes of D-Day, and the last few seconds of Pearl Harbor, but that might just be me.
Congregations held in the palms of every hand you've never held.
Your trust issues look a lot like my anxiety.
*I still can't eat on your side of the bed without choking on the residue your dreams left.
Nuclear fallout tries so hard to mimic the way your hands feel on everyone that isn't me.
Concentration camps hold all the parts of me that weren't made in your image.
I forced myself to go a day without holding anything that felt like your hands & so I went a day without burning my palms or cutting my fingertips.
Your apologies felt a lot like the ground felt in Hiroshima, I'm sure you meant to feign sincerity well enough for me to surrender to your destruction.
A pistol bullet travels anywhere from 800-900 mph, and I'm sure someone could find a way to make that poetic.
I could compare your love to a labyrinth, but I'd rather pretend that you were as enigmatic as the backs of my hands.
The smell of burning rubber reminds me of all the times your skin touched my bed sheets.
Your concern is as tangible as my nightmares; I hope you take that in a way that hurts you the most.
**** me so hard that I forget how it feels to be forgotten.
I hope I'm the girl your mother warned you about.
I'm a compilation of all my mistakes and I just hope that I burn your palms when you hold me but I also hope that you never let go; I'm the embodiment of every dilemma that's ever been vocalized.
Maybe one day you'll hear my name and lose your ability to walk.
Your name sounds a lot like the first few minutes of D-Day, and the last few seconds of Pearl Harbor, but that might just be me.
Congregations held in the palms of every hand you've never held.
Your trust issues look a lot like my anxiety.
*I still can't eat on your side of the bed without choking on the residue your dreams left.
