She felt too many things, so many
she couldn't manage to process it all
so her brain was often flooded with
overwhelming thoughts of how everything
could go wrong until she couldn't manage
to think anything at all.
The air, saturated with a putrid smell.
Foul, like a dumpster in summertime.
They're monsters, skulking around in the Dead of Night.
Leaving, a sickness in their wake.
The way you take.
Gnashing your teeth.
Trying, to pluck out little hearts.
Attempting, to creep up thighs.
Don't touch me, with those slimy fingers.
Go before you die, rotting beast.
We are not a cemetery.
A piece about how horrible men can be, also partially based off the Depeche Mode song "The Dead of Night" because I absolutely love it and thought it was about something completely different than what it's actually about.
One may be straight
like a saturated fat
One maybe bent
like an unsaturated fat
Or, one could be bent,
disguised as straight
Like a trans fat
Another weird but true science analogy poem. If you don't understand look up the difference between saturated, unsaturated, and trans fats. If this offends you feel free to message me.
Everyone I know is dead inside
So let's throw a party
Inside our miserable lives
How I love that twist
When I manipulate the situation
My others strike misdirected
Let's fill the empty
With motions from the oceans
Of our others' lives
Let's play chess for battles fought
In happy clouds of datura
Dusting our design
we have become saturated sponges,
soaking up unrequited love as if it were water
but we are running out of air and chasing nostalgia
like a blind man would his cane has to stop someday.
candy lovers all taste the same, sweet and sour
at the same time and bitter too. he told me he was tired
of just ******* around tired to coming in second place
tired of not being able to breathe because he was
a crumpled up dishtowel on that floor than cannot dry
because he was tired of absorbing my tears on his shoulder
and becoming a monsoon too big to live but too small
to make a difference. i said stay he said no i said i'll
change he said he didn't think i could i said i was sorry and
he said there was no reason to apologize for the truth.
but how can i not apologize when i have made you a trophy
story to tell my friends when i am drunk and moody
because you are no longer by my side. how can the words i'm
sorry not be carved into the cave of my mouth, tattooed
across my bottom lip with jet black ink when i still
call you, just to prove to myself that i am good enough for
someone at least how can i not be unyieldingly grateful
when you put me back together after i was a broken glass vase
and planted flowers in the deepest embers of my imagination.
i am sorry. i am sorry that i am too big of a mess to
acknowledge that i need help. i am sorry that i am so scared
of failure i hide behind big t shirts and razor sharp knives.
i am sorry that i lie through my teeth like a magician and
get angry when you don't tell me the truth, as if i have a right
to deserve it. but most of all, i am sorry that you cannot help
but grow flowers in a place where only weeds grow. my body
is an abandoned graveyard too beaten down to function
and you tried to make it a home and for that, for that
most of all i am truly sorry, from the deepest trench at the
smallest hole in my skeleton.
"stop trying to grow flowers in a place where only weeds grow," -nr.poems on instagram. thoughts?
the title is a reference to the beginning of Marvin's Room by Drake, one of my all time favorite songs.
My tears are slowly evaporating,
they ended up in the air,
which became saturated.
My skin is drying up,
it feels tight on my cheeks.
I stare at my reflection,
in the mirror,
who I'm looking at.
— The End —