"markhim" poems
You see the blood dripping
from her hands.
You watch in silence
as she traces her nails along
the sides of his neck.
She looks at you and you see
a smile on her face.
He is crying now, begging her to stop.
His hands are bloodied and tied,
purple bruises on his wrists.
His face, forever disfigured
by the jagged little knife
she clutches so softly.
She is a killer and you know it.
She is a killer who likes to play
with her food.
She looks at you with a smile on her face.
She looks at you and you're staring
at your own reflection.
-Nathaniel MarkHim (-V)
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
"I'm sick of pretending that you're not killing me. That I don't feel the ghost of your lips lingering on my skin. I'm sick of wearing you like a cologne and trying to cover you up with my coffee and my cigarette breaks. And I'm tired of pretending like I don't see you on the streets. Always calling out to me, telling me you are home. Telling me you are safety and comfort and a bed not made of ice.
I'm sick of not being able to sleep anymore. Pretending that I'm not scared to close my eyes because I might not open them again. That I might not want to."
-Nathaniel MarkHim (-V)
/If sadness was a person, what would you say?
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC