You do not know, so I suppose
In some aspect every flock of terns that fly
South when my mouth opens to speak
Is a lie;
A murder of crows crowding
Serene ocean skies with cimmerian concrete impressions,
I am buried in what I know
In what you believe to be honesty
Is absolutely otherwise and I am unsure
If an apology is needed or if a confession is necessary
Because you’ve always recognized pink
As being my favorite colour
pale pink petals and matching champagne
cold grey eyes and the pavement against feet
the soft skin of collarbones and your lips
you give me a doe-eyed look before blood begins to seep
through your shirt and onto my hands
where it stains my palms temporarily
and my mind permanently
a ghost once spoke to me,
that early morning in January.
and she was not bloody and pale and white
she was beautiful
like fireworks on new year’s eve
she told me lies
and whispers spilled from her pink, pink lips
a thirsty man got drunk on this
but i did not fall asleep
even when he vomited on the pavement.
because my favorite color is pink,
and the sun and the skies will never be pink
even when all the poets sing of it,
it will not turn cotton candy love
it is not my sister's lip gloss.
ghosts lie and they never appear
in the mirror behind you.
and she will never be bloody and pale and white
she will be beautiful.
and her lips are pink,
her cheeks are pink
i keep her in my late December night,
when I am white and pale and bloody
i am drunk with her secrets
confessions of a ghost.
but i am not asleep.
Perched atop a table, surrounded by some jazz
Sits a pink rose as glamorous as
A golden age Hollywood starlet
This rose is nocturnal, resides in her own darkness
The rose lives in shades of grey
Like the remnants of cigarettes in a nearby ashtray
With the occasional ring of cherry red lipstick
Her intoxicating perfume makes men sick
The fragrance of a pink rose
Never does as it's told
Circulates the room like a cloud of smoke
And dances around as if life were a joke
Almost transparent in the full moon’s light
A breeze knocks the perfume out of sight
Natural Beauty is an oddity of its own
With blush pink petals, this rose stands alone
The fragrance drifts out of town
Near some trailer parks, waiting for something to go down
Traveled along the highway’s long, slick road
The fragrance belongs in a dream world of its own
Some men dare to bottle her, capture her essence
Fools! Will he ever learn his lesson?
Somethings must remain untouched by man
For they have been beautiful since their lives began.
What of that is me that is so beautifully splayed against the cold tin tray beneath the light of the surgeon who is splitting me open.
What of that is not me who is the nurse, helping remove the blemishes and tumors that make the unrecognizable body mangled.
What of that situation makes this so uncannily familiar that all I do is try to change the person I am to be when I hear God sigh once more at my attempt to, again, change myself.
I hear the words,
As if I hadn't already tried but the parts that I have attempted to nurture already lay in the bin of flesh the surgeon has already removed.
I could tell you that I was the surgeon but really,
I could not.
I say I could not because of the way the surgeons eyes resembled of those who pick me apart,
Also known as society.
I am not happy with myself,
I am an ever changing chameleon to the people I choose to bring apart of my life as they chisel me down to who and what they prefer.
I am not the color blue any longer for that represented his eyes,
I am not the color pink as my friend used as a disguise,
I am not the color black for that I realize,
I was once that.
So I lay here splayed on this cold tin tray,
Picked apart by the vultures who deem worthy and those who do not.
Do not tell me to love myself when I all know is to be a sponge of the people who pour toxic waters into my skin and I wear it like plastic wrap covering me in all of the wrong places.
I am no longer in control of my own strings that hang me to this life like a noose wrapped around my throat as I struggle to breathe and dance for an audience who no longer enjoys my company but my suffering.
I hated the color yellow;
I hated the color pink;
but now that I've
grown & matured
I have learned to
love & appreciate
the color I can see
a vinyl box,
& a picture frame
& your lips
Mom had an exceptional case of Beatle mania, there was no changing that.
Dad was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, for most people would say.
He's still on his life's mission to figure out Heaven from Hell.
She will forever be lost in strawberry fields, but she's not the only one.
Instead of being torn in two mismatched genres of life, I bathed in its irony.
A mere child, with powerful words being sung to me from stories I didn't yet grasp.
Across many dark sides, and many new suns I was taught right from wrong.
Two different perspectives, creating one unalterable, unexpected song.