Rock, paper, scissors, shoot
Bouncing words and blades for two
“I’m rubber you’re glue”
How much longer till we’re through?

Breaking bones and grinding teeth
Clenched jaws with fire beneath
Tempers rising with the heat
Rock won’t stop until you bleed.

Rumors splashed across a page
Filled with malice, filled with rage
Money floating to the stage
Get the paper, make it rain.

Cut them down with dagger smiles
Ignore the wounded battle cries
Metal words until they die
“Stick a needle in your eye”

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.
Look what growing made us do.

I’m crying again
But not like before

The highway lines are blurred
Yet I feel better than ever

There’s a way of letting go
And giving it all
To the one who loves you
For all your impurities
That makes you feel
Like singing
In the car
With tears
On your cheeks

Grip my thighs
The way you grip the steering wheel
And let’s go for a ride

I always wondered
If something I never had
Could hurt me

But then I held my breath
And my lungs screamed for the air
They didn’t have

Maybe snow cones
And pickup lines
Aren’t meant to go
Hand in hand,
But I needed a map
Because I was lost in your eyes.

You gave me a snow cone
I gave you my number
And maybe
That’s not a good trade
But you thought
Maybe
It was worth it
At least for one night.

You’re just a football-playing
Baseball boy
And maybe
There was a spark
And maybe
You liked the taste of grape
That lingered on my lips
And maybe
You’re still going
To text me back.

But maybe
Is no assurance
To a girl
In love with love
And boys who make
Snow cones.

If we could see
What windows can see
As they gaze out into the night,
Would we stand there amazed?
Perplexed and quite dazed?
Or simply be filled with a fright?

The windows reflect us,
Their glass won't perfect us,
But still we have reason to stare.
Because windows they show you
Yourself like they know you,
And unknown they catch all unaware

My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in none.
My own blockade.

Then you came.
You plowed through
The tall thorns, throwing
kisses and sweet words.
You planted beds of tulips
Where thorns had once been.
The berries?
They've rotted,
The sweet lullabies and promises
Too much to handle.
In their place grows wildflowers,
A meadow, calling my name.

My garden was then,
More pretty than lethal.
Where thorns had thrived,
Blooms took over.
Where stone once sat,
Trees had grown.
A garden.
Filled, yet empty.
No longer my own
Blockade.

But weeds
Silently take over the flowers.
Lies drown the wildflower meadow,
which once grew freely in my heart.
A blockade begins, thorns thriving once again.
And then you leave.

My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in only you.

Now my blockade
Of thorns without roses,
Waits.
Waits to be
More pretty than lethal.
••• ••• ••• •••
-T.C., Broken Blooms