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Samantha Apr 2014
Tongues tied into knots
Like cherry stems.
Sweetness exploding,
Creating a big bang of flavor.
He said I taste like green apple candies,
Smell like coconut chocolates.
Lavender icing coating my lips
As if it were meant to be lipstick.
Sunflower seeds for teeth.
Slit my wrists
And call it strawberry syrup.
Samantha Apr 2014
Teeth lining up around houses,
Whiter and brighter than
The magnesium burning in the fireplace.
He tells me about his dreams.
About gaping maws
Glistening and whispering.
Flute songs echoing until his ears cave in.
A mountain of tree limbs
Twisting like claws.
The dog barks too loudly.
The baby cries.
He tells me about the married life.
Samantha Mar 2014
The world is so big
And I am so small.
A speck of dust lost in the stars.
Not good enough to be called stardust.
They build monuments for kings
So tall they battle planets.
War generals rewarded with medals and memorials.
We strive for remembrance
But the world is so big
And I am so small.
Samantha Mar 2014
It’s been a year
And I still don’t know how to feel.
Sometimes I feel elated.
Out of all the girls,
All the plums,
I was the ripest, the juiciest.
I spread across his tongue
As a smile spread across his lips.

Sometimes I feel empty.
Like he had
Taken away a part of me.
A certain innocence
So rare, so valuable, so hidden
Not even the best criminals
Could steal it back.

Sometimes I feel fragile.
My bones replaced by porcelain.
They forgot to wrap me
In bubblewrap.
They forgot the
Handle with care sign.
I shattered at his feet.
I crunched under his boots.

Sometimes I feel depressed.
Any light I had
Has darkened.
Any fire has
Been snuffed out.
I am nothing more than smoke.

Sometimes I feel tired.
Like it takes too much energy to live.
I’m not strong enough
To live.
To push through.
My organs are too heavy.
I am too heavy.

Sometimes I feel happy.
When I forget about that night.
When I forget about the bedroom floor.
The popcorn bowl.
The army of whispers
Assaulting my ears.
When I’m alone with a book
Full of poems.
When I shed this skin,
The one with burn marks and
Moth holes,
I’m happy.
Samantha Mar 2014
Bushy eyebrows arch over
Blue-gray eyes.
They fill with tears.
Bushy brown hair
Sticking out in every direction.
Each strand smells of smoke.
Pale skin riddled with red spots of acne.
A few beauty marks breakthrough,
But not enough to make her beautiful.
She loves the irony in that.
Pale, white scars
Lie hidden on her thighs.
You can only see them when it is summer
And the sun is only shining on her.

She's a master of disguise.
She knows how to be invisible,
How to disappear.
A Houdini in the making.

Her arms are full of books
And pens
And poems
And apologies scrawled out on her wrists
In sloppy handwriting.
She holds her bottom lip
Between her teeth.
Hopes no one can see the bloodstains.

Sometimes she smiles.
Sometimes she walks the dog
Until the heat becomes too much and
She vomits on the sidewalk.
Sometimes she listens to old records in
Her attic while the cat
Claws at the door.
Sometimes she forgets to eat.
Sometimes she just is.

She has a lisp.
People lie and tell her they can't hear it.
She knows.
She used to wear bracelets
But they felt like handcuffs.
She used to wear necklaces
But they felt like nooses.
People love her,
But not in the way she wants to be loved.

She lets grenades explode on her tongue.
She swallows spit like liquor.
Her heart drums too loudly for her liking.
She bites her nails.
They tell her to stop.

She thinks about war.
About bullets falling like rain.
People dropping like flies.
She thinks about bloodshed.
Her heart breaks again.
She is fine china.

Her teeth fall out.
Her hands shake.
She doesn't know how to be okay.
She needs to be reminded
She is real.
Breathing is too hard for her.
The skin on her palms crack.
She doesn't even care.

One time they left her alone.
For two days.
She went insane.
She rocked herself back and forth
On the sun porch.
A locked oven.
She didn't wash her hair.
Didn't sleep.
She took the bus to work
And watched a man lick the window.
She was sick.

She went home.
Slept for 14 hours straight.

He touched her.
She thawed her frozen shield
And he touched her.
She didn't know it at the time.
She kept quiet.
Only talks about on paper.
She saw him the other day,
Felt the acid of his saliva burn holes in her skin.
She couldn't look away.
Her eyes rolled back in her head again.

They say she's dark.
She has stopped being a girl.
Started being a force of nature.
A tornado.
A thunderstorm.
An earthquake.
A volcano bleeding fire.
She is broken,
Held together by tape.
She is tired.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of being nice.
Tired of the silence that fills her skull like a bullets.

She found a spider the other day
And couldn't find the strength
To **** it.
Samantha Mar 2014
You push your fist into your mouth,
Bite down on your knuckles.
Your teeth glued
To your tongue.
Taste the salt of your blood.
Jaw ******* shut.
You swallow your
"No's"
"Stop's"
"Don't touch me's"
"Leave's".
You swallow your voice.
He gnawed on you.
Nothing more than a dog's bone.
The squeak in your chest burst.
You're just saliva
Hanging off his jowls.
Samantha Mar 2014
A post apocalyptic tongue
Weighing heavy and dormant in your mouth
As you hitchhike south,
Stopping only to say hello to the
Forget-me-nots
On the side of the road.
Your lips are chapped, dry.
One bite away from blood.
Your blonde hair snarls and snaps
Around your finger.
A Venus fly trap.
You are Venus.
A beautiful weapon of mass destruction.
You can start wars
With a face like that.
You spread your legs for
Boys who smell of wine.
You spread your legs for
Men with wallets fatter than their bellies.
You spread your legs for
Yourself because it feels good.
They brand you a sinner.
Construct a neon sign and
Point it at you.
You forget
Girls don’t do that.
And girls don’t drink
And girls don’t smoke
And girls don’t curse or kick or fight
Or hitchhike south
Or embrace their beauty
Or say hello to the forget-me-nots
On the side of the road
Or stumble home,
Wherever home is,
Drunk and reeking of
Cigarettes and ***** with
Last night’s lover still in their hair.
But you are not a girl.
You are Venus
And you are dangerous.
A bouquet of cries for help.
You sit in diners
With strangers and speak loudly of
Of rashes and scars.
You sit in ivory towers,
Knitting dresses and scratching
At the stone.
You stand on the sidelines
And snap your gum.
They tell you you can’t.
Your voice stings their eardrums.
Your voice is a thunderstorm.
You are a thunderstorm.
You are hitchhiking south with a
Hand full of forget-me-nots and
Blood rolling down your chin.
You are not a girl.
You are Venus.
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