I came home
To our Family's House
In Rocky River, Ohio,
A Cleveland suburb,
To witness my Dad,
Fucking my little sister, Jenny.
I felt the instant urge to kill him.
I ran away,
And hopped a train bound for Denver, Colorado
So I wouldn't end up in the Joint.
When I begged for coins
On Denver's 16th Street Mall,
Tourists would notice
That I am quite intelligent
They would suggest
That I study Business or Law.
They couldn't understand
Why I'm Destitute,
Begging for loose change
On the Streets?
But I'm just on my way to California
To get as far away from my Sonofabitch Father
As I can.
I might go back to School
I'd like to See the World,
Hair pulled back,
Makeup at it's peak,
Now tell me girl,
Are you weak?
I've seen your pretty smile,
But it doesn't reach your eyes,
Although you look happy,
Your eyes can't tell lies.
Now tell me pretty girl
In the front of the room
Who is it,
That makes you feel gloom?
Is it your friends,
Who are pretty,
Please tell me girl,
Because I know how you feel,
How it is
Being the third wheel.
And those feelings,
I'm here for you,
Please don't lie.
It's sad to see happy faces with sad eyes.
We'd go to yours,
Cuddle up in bed,
Breathless from head.
Bathed in your scent
& warmed to my core.
But guilt and shame battle within,
I suppose in you it came to win.
We'd smoke weed kickback
& roll around in the sheets,
Wash away sweat from each other's bodies in the shower.
But back at school you'd ignore me,
You'd laugh when your friends cornered me and called me fag.
You'd avoid eye contact while sending sweet texts,
I guess all was cool, my name on your phone book reads Harriet.
When I bumped into you at lunch, my food ended up on the floor, in the bathroom I fell to the floor locked the door and let tears pour.
Back at yours, on the same streets we've lived on for years.
"Old friends" I guess I should ignore,
Your treatment of me doesn't change.
Why can't I shake you,
Lost in fantasy,
The possibility of us.
The thought that you might love me.
We'd burn one down but this time you took my virginity,
The agony washed away by pleasure, still lost in my fantasy.
But you rolled off me,
Face contorted with disgust,
You'd barely gone cold inside me before you returned to being cold with me.
Gather the fruits of the season
the harvest of the land
and of the heart
is ripe for the picking
though the only fruit that has grown
is of the seeds of denial
that you let them plant in you
and that you have nurtured
to their rich color and noxious scent
overwhelming to all
but to you and your joyful sorrow
because they remind you of them.
she woke up in denial, went to work with her anger, decided to change her life by lunch, then, when dinner rolled around, had given up on the idea of change completely, and on dinner. After she had cursed at the moon for being so romantic, she used up all her hot water, showering, but mostly thinking of rebuttals to conversations she had, had with co-workers earlier or where about to have, it pays to be prepared she would say.
She dried off un easy in her easy chair and listen to billy holidays ‘’All or nothing at All’’, ‘’but not for me’’ was her favourite song, she made sure to play it over twice, first time to enjoy the song, the second time to wallow’s in it. And when she had well and truly felt like crap, she had decided she ought to get to bed, after all she had to get up in 4 hours.
But lately someone had seemed to put rocks in her bed, which meant sleep would likely be not an option and she would likely be up late with talking with her thoughts. in this time she liked to sort out the clutter in her head, putting together perfect scenario’s that would end with her wealthy and famous, but more frequently she would seem together a story about a perfect man she could confide in, someone who will calm her down when angry and likes her the way that she is. She holds on to that story, no, she demands it.
Like most the morning brings no change, neither dose the next. The same album, the same time, with the same song and the same shower with the same hypothetical conversations. Day in and day out. She repeats this cycle for 7 months on and off with occasion brakes every now and then. after all, try as you might, you can’t be pissed off 12 months a year.
At the end of the day, are satin doll is stuck in a cycle of shelf pity, and until someone comes along to tell her this or she realises her shelf, she will continue like this. A modern-day Sisyphus. Rolling a bolder up a hill only to have it roll back at the end of the day.
I don't recall how long I was on the floor.
My knees buckled;
Gravity betrayed me.
Crawling to bed, I slipped into his shirt.
It still smelled like home.
There was no solace.
I laid in bed day after day.
Word had spread through merciless mouths,
My pitiless inner turmoil
Now casual conversation.
Hushed sympathies and cynicism.
Confirmed expectations like bullets,
ripping through my skin.
I had plans for us,
and I swallow those words;
A pill that chokes me.
Part of me is still in that house.
Part of me is still living out my days,
A life that only exists in fragments,
sharpened edges of memories.
They cut to the bone.
I see you like an apparition.
I am defeated,
Sadness taking a physical form.
My delusion fades into reality,
I see your hand slip away.
In this reality, I am defeated,
but I am reaching still.
I don't love you
But I like the way you make me feel
I like the way you look at me
I like this burning sensation
I don't love you
But I like the feel of you on my skin
I like the feel of your lips
I like how you taste bittersweet
I don't love you
But I like how you call my name
I like how you feel the same
I like the way we lose ourselves in each other's minds
It's not love
And I couldn't care less
Even though I don't love you
I don't want to ever walk away
The air in my lungs isn't breathable.
He knows I'm always looking for you.
Blood won't reach my hands.
He said my hands are always too cold.
I haven't felt warm in ten months.
"You're happiest in the summer."
"Yeah, I know." He stares at me,
like he'll linger long enough,
see the crack in my disposition
and he'll be able to patch me smooth
and serene again.
If it wouldn't give me away,
The people we love, or rather,
The best or worst versions of ourselves,
forever condemning us—
either rise to the unattainable occasion
or fall weary against our worst selves.
"I love you," he says. I smile,
looking at him convincingly.
I don't feel anything.
Be it on the tip of my tongue
or the edge of a lie,