Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I washed my hair for the first time in three weeks and
learned to stop walking on tiptoes
                I am the bitter taste at the back of your throat.
Some nights, I turn on every light in the house and sit awake picking skin
from my chapped lips
               I am full-circle and puncture wounds.
I wanted to be the girl to wear her heart on her sleeve but
my armband was embroidered with a *******

I was misinformed. Romanticised.
There isn't romance in 4am shudders, in skin stuck to the teal sofa or the sweat between my
shoulder blades. In yellow stained fingers nicotine or black stained lungs tar.
For protection, I tried pouring a ring of salt - and found myself
sitting cross-legged on the floor
rubbing salt into my wounds
           No ritual can protect me from myself.
I probably ought to edit this, I like leaving it spontaneous and I want to map my progression.
 Apr 2013 thevagabondking
Angel
In the summer we stayed at a glance,
A passing glance was all that had a splinter
to succeed in it’s ability to have a chance,
In the summer I often turned back in the winter
Dreaming of someone to rid me of my saddened dance,
You were but a man in a world I wasn’t yet delivered.

Summer faded to fall and the world fell on it’s side,
I felt things from an inner light working deep within,
Laying beneath the feathers of your wings saved what was inside
Of me and the demons that lay beneath my skin,
Disappeared to far off dimensions which boosted your pride.

Fall brought sweet kisses and letters dotted hearts for eyes,
Discovering the world which brought my mind to infinity,
I let you come inside my home, my heart, my skin, my soul, to my demise.
I gave in to the heaven’s and believed in the human divinity,
A love to keep me sheltered from the red and blackened skies,
As long as I could creep back under the shell of your vicinity.

Music and waves of laughter spread across the days we spent,
As fall turned to winter the covers and you kept me warm,
Through the winter the world began to fade, our love did dent.
Through the days and through the nights, a blooming flame scorn.
As the spring began to bring the rain, off the man of God went.
As she wept underneath the rocks of the buildings with her heart torn.

The darkness that she fears rests solely in the hands she holds,
Her own hands she takes not for granted for they have kept her sane.
Praying down on her knees that there will be a path to soon unfold,
Until then there is pain and pain and pain.
Winter took with it the echoes of the memories which now go untold,
Here comes the rain.
Felled canvas, blushing colors my life’s stitch ceaselessly applied
What portrait stretches and looms it’s casement to my soul?
If all deeds behold with no aid of cloak, for sins sore shame to hide?
Needle pricked fingers recount thy yarn.
Shall I gaze upon a short winged angel, laced in gutters, where sensuality is defined?
How skillful the likeness of my windblown heart?
What shades of scarlet ooze that aching part?
Will I hesitate looking at past reckless deeds?
Woven with flare but so careless of needs.
Does smugness suspend me in self sapid stitches and ghost like thread for inches and inches?
How large the spool my decent breadth hold, done in shimmering shades, subtended in gold?
Dare I hope it be worthy to admire when shown?
Humble glory, my life, hung behind a King’s throne?
do to me
what
summer does
to flowers

make me
blush and
bloom to
the nature
trapped
beneath
your fingertips
^
loving you
is a little
like bleeding

— The End —