look at these girls sweet girls pretty girls skinny girls sweet pretty skinny girls pale as ghosts on all the posts programmed to make you love the most lips with a taste perfect cherries and bony hands bony wrists bony thighs little do you know they are beginning to crumble and fade into the wall joining the skeletons in their closet digging their graves with manicured nailsm living up to their skin tone
her breath colors the winter air gray not the ugly kind of gray that winter snow ages into and not the kind that's pretty either. it's the kind of gray that's too fragile for time to sustain it's the kind of fragile too light for scales to hold it's the kind of light that wants to be lighter, that wants to be weightless it's the kind of weightless that only knows bony arms and hollow cheeks and it's the kind of bony, the kind of hollow, that turns ribs into cages and cages into prisons for hearts that want to be— not ugly, not pretty, not fragile, not light, not lighter, not weightless, and not even bony or hollow— but just *be.
I have trouble with myself For as I look out into the world, I see lives being saved, Changes being made. Scientists discovering, Engineers building, Inventors inventing-- And all I have to offer Are a few sad poems, Pathetic, Fragile and bony, Just like the hands that make them.
they say opposites attract, but then, how are we in contact? we met in the same hiding place, with walls up to our embrace. same empty wells on our faces same invisible threads on our lips slouched posture boney hips. i was a blank canvas of a girl and you were a boy who liked to spill your ink on ****** white pages. i was painfully boring and you were the ruins after a hurricane. you had stars for eyes and flames that licked your lips like you were the only wildfire out there and i was nothing but a crack on a sidewalk. you had every natural disaster dancing on your fingertips and i was dying for you to touch me. but your palms only sweat when you daydreamed about kissing me and i was infatuated with your dreamy eyes you kept galaxies in your palms just to give me a sense of home every time we held hands. silly boy hasnt anybody told you death doesnt have a home. hand in hand we are filthy image to them they try to **** us but you spill anything about us to anyone that would read according to you there wasn't any us, ink all over paper yet never any love they asked you if you ever loved someone you said you never really cared seems like i was the air you breathed in but coughed out as dust instead.