Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
brittlebirdPoems
Your eyes mean bees in my throat, but the first time I saw you it only felt like fire. I don't think I realized that is the only element I could let myself go to, because the beauty of it looks like the burning of things better left forgotten. Like lying mirrors. Like blind trust. The first time I thought you would hold my hand, I was wrong.  It was by my wrist instead. I have never felt fear like that, like razors. Sweet, slippery red. I never thought I'd be one to let myself fall like that, but your skin looks like a promise I can't keep.
0
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
The bees, the blood.
Your eyes mean bees in my throat, but the first time I saw you it only felt like fire. I don't think I realized that is the only element I could let myself go to, because the beauty of it looks like the burning of things better left forgotten. Like lying mirrors. Like blind trust. The first time I thought you would hold my hand, I was wrong.  It was by my wrist instead. I have never felt fear like that, like razors. Sweet, slippery red. I never thought I'd be one to let myself fall like that, but your skin looks like a promise I can't keep.
Day 13 of NaPoWriMo. Of not wanting to believe in the real things that hurt, comes fictitious release and opening the shutters to an almost blue sky.
#love#eyes#tears#falling#blood#red#skin#wrists#bees#razors
brittlebird
Written by
brittlebird
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem