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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
Esther May 2016
her breath colors the winter air gray
not the **** 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 ****, not pretty, not fragile, not light, not lighter, not weightless,
and not even bony or hollow—
but just
*be.
she wants to be. to just be.
Angela Moreno Oct 2015
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.
malaz Apr 2014
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 ***** 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.

— The End —