I wanted to write a poem about
something seemingly simple like love,
but then I remembered all those times I
lost myself on the winding stairs of your eyes;
how I would so eagerly climb the steps of your retinas and
get lost in the hues and you didn’t feel anything as
I shattered every glass landing but
sometimes I feel the phantom drip of
blood on my feet when I trip over
my own tongue.
I remember my heart felt
like it was ticking counterclockwise
and how my stomach was shredding itself,
taking the ribboned pieces and
hanging them from my ribcage
so that they fluttered when my lungs
expanded on that last exhale.
I’d like to think that the click and bob
Of your throat was remorse.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
I wanted to write a poem about
something seemingly simple like love,
but then I remembered all those times I
lost myself on the winding stairs of your eyes;
how I would so eagerly climb the steps of your retinas and
get lost in the hues and you didn’t feel anything as
I shattered every glass landing but
sometimes I feel the phantom drip of
blood on my feet when I trip over
my own tongue.
I remember my heart felt
like it was ticking counterclockwise
and how my stomach was shredding itself,
taking the ribboned pieces and
hanging them from my ribcage
so that they fluttered when my lungs
expanded on that last exhale.
I’d like to think that the click and bob
Of your throat was remorse.
