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smallblank Feb 2014
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.

You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.

wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.

How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.

A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.

I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.

On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).

New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.

I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy
smallblank Feb 2014
**** me platonically.
Measure the distance between your fingers and the synapse in my brain.
Check the amplitude across my breastplate and The absence of love marks semblance covering it.
Detach your hips from mine and run away from Me faster.
Look along the purlieu of my heart and shake me Harder with subliminal messages between Glances.
Touch my versification to your mouth and do not Stop your flickering eyes from studying the genial Eulogies between every line.
Sir, you cannot touch antique pieces of marrow And bone.
This blood is obsolete.
How anachronistic to have a heart pumping Inside of a dead soul.
Please tell me a story, the side I could never see.
smallblank Jan 2015
on your wedding day

I will sit in wooden church pews more uncomfortable than your fathers stare because he knows what we are both thinking.

I will let my eyes wander through eyelashes heavy with reflections from the light of your smile as she walks down the aisle.

I watch as your hands shake like a child chasing a sudden warm breeze only to find a tornado.

you say your vows and I can only imagine ***** overflowing from your mouth because the name you say after "I love you" is not mine. It is not even close.

friends and family rise and pianos begin to play what sounds like a death march. You will have your first dance with her moments after this and all I can remember  is the jealousy in your eyes the night you wished you were the one dancing with me.

the room clears out and I can only think of the bed you will make love to her in. I hope you still find my stray hairs between the sheets. I know your finger tips will caress her sides in a way I never knew how to receive.

the song of my heart was always a little off pitch, so, when she plays the pianos of your heart I can only hope this time it will be in the right

key.
smallblank Nov 2013
Your eyes open slowly and your blurry vision begins to fade. You look around and the room is white. Hanging over you is a canopy collecting every butterfly you've ever experienced. You step from underneath it and your feet touch the  floor covered in satin. You begin slipping just as your control once began to slip through your own fingers. You feel for the wall for support only to find your hand stained blue and cold.

The room was flooded with blue. You walk towards the cd player, and push play like you have a thousand times before. The cd plays the sounds of the ocean, the splashing against the rocks reminded me of a love that always came back for more. You were calm and every ounce of you called out for the warmth of the sun and the taste of the salt on his lip.
His kisses grew far more passionate than you ever intended and the vines leading down euphoric paths became green and quickly the room fades a deep emerald. The leaves began to change and your vines snapped much sooner than you ever planned for.

Sun poured into the light and reflected on every mirror you so impatiently refused to stare into. The room was yellow. You were alone with mirrors and a puzzle. The puzzle represented every piece of him that you never understood and your frustration pushed through your mind like crepuscular rays in a cloud. You heard yellow meant happy, but it only reminded you of a cowardice and an irritation that could cut holes in granite rock.

You look down towards your chest slowly rising and falling only to find the floor is orange, the walls are orange, every table and chair is orange. You walk over and sit in the corner, in the chair, seeming to be nailed to the floor and suddenly you remember every regret hammered into your head with no intention of release, just like the chair.

Power, lust and *******. You were covered in his scent and the marks on your skin were as red as the walls. The ruby matched your hatred, but it represented the passion that once coursed through your veins and raced with the beating of your heart that sounded far too much like the clock that was ticking out of time. It was red and it was quiet, but your intensity diminished as the  luxury of purple took its course and had its way with the walls.

The hands on the clock were amethyst along with ever shelf end every book within it. You reach past the cobwebs to reveal a book of your life. The pages are stained with deep purple smudges similar to your arms and knees after your demons have beaten you down. You begin to read the words on every page covered in black ink.

You realize now the colors are painted along the wall of your mind. It is as dark inside your mind and you feel submerged in a water deeper than the well your family had once thrived from. But the well of hope has run dry and you desperately search for the water that once kept you all afloat. The only noises you hear are every regret that ever snuck its way into the crevices of every memory. You pray for white, yellow, red, anything but black. But you are alone with the demons and you are alone in the walls of your head.
smallblank May 2014
As you read this you are traveling 220 kilometers per second across the galaxy and I cannot stop thinking about the fact that ninety percent of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not "you."

Which explains why your eyes likely originated from the belly of a star.

There is always a light at the end of every tunnel and if there isn't you should consider screaming until your voice echoes across the galaxies tucked within your irises.

I wonder if the trees know they must die every year for their leaves to become new again. Wounds line your heart like sticky notes left in the sun and the origin of you has been faded.

Black is the color of death but to your funeral I will wear white.

I will celebrate the death of everything trembling inside of you and stitch together funeral dresses for every version of you I watched leave without a goodbye.

I will wear white to your funeral to celebrate your rebirth soon to come.

Many hands will tie your old self to a chair and set the line between real and ideal on fire but only time can turn a flame into embers.

Most of the cells in your body are just empty space and skin is only a burial ground for old versions of yourself to die.

Your fingernails are only tiny shovels digging up a bed of dirt to plant new pieces of your DNA in.

I will cover my best dress in dirt and stain every white hem in celebration of the death of the fear inside of you and the birth of hope.
smallblank Jun 2015
Who is to say that "you" is you and "I" is me? Who is to say every penny thrown in a well is to wish for something you don't already have.

I have three empty bullet cases in my pocket and a funny reason for each of them being there.

You look out the window and discover a body floating face down in your pool except you don't have a pool and the body is you. It's me. It's everything that never was.

I am a punch line in search of a set up.

What is it like under your bed? Have I become the monster that lives under it?
smallblank Dec 2013
I wouldn't call this poetry
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing beautiful about wanting to die. There is nothing lovely about hurting yourself, nothing symbolic about deaths kiss that I wish would kiss my entire soul.
I wouldn't call this poetry because it isn't.
I think really living is a lot like knowing there's demons lurking inside your head but checking anyways.
I think it's like getting home late and pulling back the shower curtain checking murders
even though all you have to so is pull back your own eyelids and see the very thing that's killing you
I did not sleep last night because I was contemplating ways to die while also telling myself not to do it
I think I'm in a paradox.
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing moving about this.I long for safety like a deaf person longs to hear.
But how can you long for something you've never felt?
I've been applying bandaids to my heart except it's words and the adhesive they provided just doesn't stick in my mind anymore
Everyone wants to knock down my walls but I'm missing the safety the cemented in bricks provide and I promise you
Oh god I promise you
You don't want to come through my walls
smallblank Oct 2013
Loving you in the form of forced "I love you"'s between every touch, between every doubt inside that screams "no" while you keep screaming "yes" but all I wanted was for you to touch my heart the same way you touched my thighs and grabbed my face unapologetically
Loving you in the form of bare feet on wet pavement similar to the way you carefully walked your way into my mind. I wish every natural disaster would sound like our hurricanes of false "I love you"'s and forced moans

Losing you in the form of blankets on that cold November morning when our hearts were no longer fabricated to beat the same. I never quite forgot the way the frost matched the color of your eyes the day you decided loving me was as worthless as hiding from the monsters that lived in your head. Losing you in a form quite similar to the closest way we made love; you'd lie with I love you after minutes of me hoping you'd stop. The cadence of your voice became stale and I think I could see winter in your eyes even when I was not looking at you and my sighs became more frostbitten than your words.

Missing you in the form of sweaty palms but you never really were one for holding hands and now your fingers are shaking harder than they did during our first kiss but it wasn't our first kiss I missed, it was every one after that and the way you'd whisper I love you as if one time you truly meant it, just to watch me walk away when I thought I'd had enough. Missing you in the form of wearing your deodorant every night after years of you being gone because I will never feel safe without your memory. I was clinging to your memory in hopes that these nightmares aren't my reality but you never woke me up and I'm still waiting to be held by your words.

Forgetting you in the form of burnt love letters smothering out your voice in my head but still stinging deeper than any cut you placed on my heart. I still remember the rush of blood to my face the first time we touched, but now I wonder if the heat was a spark in interest or a warning sign. Forgetting you in the form of sleeping the time away, just to see your silhouette in my dreams. I don't trust my own two hands, how can I ever grasp yours again? Forgetting you was slam poetry except its not beautiful at all and the only thing being slammed is the doors to my heart because I'm not sure if it's safe inside anymore.
smallblank Dec 2013
I would like to sit in an open field with you and scream at the top of our lungs
until ever word that's ever knotted in my throat comes pouring out of my mouth and dripping from my lips like blood
I would like to scream for every plea for help you've ever held inside and cry for every tear your heart refuses to release
Scream with me until we've clinched our fists so tight that every blood vessel made of nightmares untold will burst into a pool of secrets
Until our bones are wrapped in layers of nostalgic thoughts
and my spine coated in leaves closer to death than I believe I am
Though blood may be the poison watching each word fall from your heart immerses my soul like crimson relief
smallblank Jun 2015
birds are chirping. this is familiar. you can do familiar. "it's a mess" I say. quickly you reply "it's not a mess, it's pieces of your life." my life's pieces; not mine. It's taken shape as hundreds of tiny copies from the same **** story. you're fragile. you're the yellow copy of a receipt. stupid little paper girl.

this is going to be terrible and that's going to have to be okay because death is open to interpretation now.

there is something to be said about lying under every window sill in the house just to follow the sunlight and pretend it hasn't been dark since you left.

you look back in five years and realize that "you" in every poem has become yourself. everybody grew up and moved out of the sadness except for you.

dress up as yourself when you loved someone and stare in the mirror until it cracks. you never thought you'd be leaving the lights on waiting for yourself to come home. you'll never understand and that's the whole point.

always leaving never really arriving. you can stay only long enough for them to know who you are. nothing can remain the same because that's not real, is it? they say nothing lasts forever. let's be nothing. stop existing. we'll be timeless.

— The End —