"rashes" poems
Cut me open, cover yourself in a blanket of skin.
It won't make I difference. I don't inhabit it anyway.
It is a shell.
It is a lifeless thing.
It is not me. It makes no decisions.
Split the differences in your own mind and do anything you wish.
Take away every doubt.
Leave it on the edge of a cliff. The rain will wash it down our throats.
A spoonful of sugar.
It is laced. Silk laces, pretty underthings ruined.
They were taken off.
Too many flowers to water with the fluids running from open wounds.
They will not grow. They are made of the plastic from leftover
Glass from a broken window. Portal to the soul
My eyes are not there anymore. Blindly
Stuttering, I cannot speak.
These arms lack bones.
They were buried long ago, burned to blackened
Charcoal. Draw a masterpiece, dear.
Stab my physical canvas with toothpicks and see visions.
Crystal trees growing from my ears, reaching into your voice box.
Sing for me.
Make me dance over the salt, gives me rashes on my legs, blue flame licking what is yours.
Turn the key in my bleeding back. Twist my spine and laugh, watch as I writhe in
Lust?
How am I supposed to know. My brain is nonexistent, just gears and crushed light bulbs.
There is no light.
I took a step two nights past, I didn't see.
A tusk ****** through my foot, breaking bones.
I admire the animals caged at the zoo. They were stronger than I was, before they were
Eliminated. They are dying, wilting.
I drew flowers on my nails to represent them. A memorial to the horrid truth of knowing about the robotics of life.
This is just a computer, ringing a high. No going backwards. The button doesn't work, the transformer blew, we have no power.
My data was deleted.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
Depression is such a cruel punishment.
There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests
or x-ray scans to send people scurrying in concern.
No signs of suffering.
Just a slow process of destruction
from the inside,
as insidious as any cancer.
And like cancer, it is essentially
a solitary experience.
A room in hell with only your name on the door.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Green grow the rushes o
Green grow the rushes o
When it comes to be a song
Let it be then
What is wrong?
Dont you see this forest mind?
Dont you see me come along?
Green grow the rushes o
My confession; me, not drunk
Blue
Purple
So pink and what
Many colors on the top
Moon is shining in my skull
Forest growing
Green and green
But green is drawning inside blood
Blood of haters blood of eyes
Green grow the rushes o
How this song just got my mind?
You don't owe me
Yes I'm done
Last word
My, mind, surreal...
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC
your fingers caress me
hot iron dragging
along the landscape
of my rashes
lookin for a weeping sore
prodding for satisfaction
my skin blistering
like raspberries in summer heat
Dec 17, 2022
Dec 17, 2022 at 10:04 PM UTC
I had only offered Madrynne a *** of
Shikokianum and a Herb Robert,
but before long, the calm of the "maiden grass"
had over-reacted
their crown lain a heavy price,
for not only had I rattled their jealousy
but a subsequent breeze
scorched the floral bract,
of my prize "laidlaw" Bougainvillea
a cankerous deed -
cleft from veins,
like a storm brood
will there be such rashes again ?
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
Flower flower, on your stem,
Do you not worry less and less,
What you’ll be, like one of them?
Flower flower, in the wind,
Take my heart, take me in.
I’ve wanted nothing else since.
Flower flower, how you bloom!
You shine so brightly just to be in a room.
Time controls when fate is too soon.
Flower flower, where do you live?
You’re stolen of pedals and yet you still live,
Hoping there’s more you can happily give.
Flower flower, in the grass,
Are you not crying, are you not sad?
I’m already used to it with all I’ve had.
Flower flower, show me your face,
I want to be you, I want to have grace.
So I will always have the words to say.
Flower flower, please open up,
Show us your pedals, show us your love.
There’s no reason why you shouldn’t reach for the sun.
Flower flower, hold your ground,
Don’t be alarmed when you hear the sound,
Of others mocking and playing around.
Flower flower, release your scent,
Let us know you and no longer guess,
Of your colors, shape, or past.
Flower flower, tell me your fears.
I will listen to you whenever you’re near,
And hear your voice when you fail to endear.
Flower flower, show me how.
Do they not hurt, do they not gouge?
You were tried and forsaken, yet you make no sound.
Flower flower, hear my cry.
You’ve heard so many others so why not mine?
Seems all there is to do in life is die.
Flower flower, I beg you, don’t fade.
Choose to keep on, choose to stay.
Before the wolves devour my last words I’ve always wanted to say.
Flower flower, forgive my actions.
I faded away along with the ashes,
Holding the fire, holding the rashes.
Flower flower, I can explain.
I’m so desperate to say what I’ve always to say,
Waiting for that one miraculous day.
Flower flower, I made a mistake.
I know I’ll remember it all the way to my grave.
I’ve told you nothing, so don’t bother saying what you’ll say.
Flower flower, it’s not your fault.
You were never aware of this pain as I walked through the halls.
I kept my head held high, kept my shoulders tall.
Flower flower, where will you be,
When I’m buried and no longer can see?
Guess you were the person and I was the deed.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There’s nought but care on every han’
In every hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o’ man,
An ’twere na for the lasses, O?
The warl’ly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
But gi’e me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O,
An’ warl’ly cares an’ warl’ly men
May a’ *** tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless ***** O;
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her ‘prentice han’ she tried on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
2.3k
I know a girl that piles on the necklaces
“Makes me look pretty,” she says
She’s all nervous, high-pitched laughter that jangles
as she fidgets with her armored collarbones
Rose red rashes bloom around ivory flesh,
She scratches at her skin inflamed
Ring ring ring around her pretty little neck
With those posey necklaces and gemstones
She smiles fondly at each reflection
of chains and rocks entangled
Wrung wrung wrung of beauty is she
Bitten so fiercely to her ivory bones
Her laughter hacks into little cough spurts,
and the metal winks dully as it strangles
Ring ring ring around her rosy little neck--
she piles on more necklaces.
Jan 16, 2018
Jan 16, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
I tried to talk to caterpillars once
and when they didn’t talk back I thought
there was something wrong with me
but when they finally replied I
knew
there was something wrong with me
and maybe I tried to fix it
or maybe I didn’t
either way,
the fuzzy caterpillar voices
never stopped
and I tried my hardest
to avoid the tomato plants
skirting around them
in the garden of my thoughts
but there’s poison ivy around the edges
and I’m sick of the rashes
of losing it all to a half-bloomed rose
to the promise of growth
and the reality of a frozen season
of leaves being eaten
by the caterpillars
when I could’ve told them to stop.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
I look at my hands, and I stretch my fingertips out before me
Twist and turn my wrist to inspect them
See the slender digits flex and bend to my will
Run my thumb along the crescent moons of my nails in validation:
They are sharp now, sharp enough to be instruments as I drum them against a desk
Sharp enough to be weapons
Eczema, believe it or not, is torture
I look at my hands; see little constellations of bruises and cuts
I trace the braille across my wrist, unable to read something I’ve never been accustomed to, despite it being an almost constant companion
It comes and goes like a fair-weather friend and always arrives when it is never wanted
In summer, when temperatures climb up buildings and trees
I find myself not just allergic to pollen, but to myself
In winter, I peel off small bits of layers to reach for places that won’t mind the cold as much
Reaching and searching quick as chilled air finds a break in the defenses
You asked me what was wrong; that if I was sad I could do whatever I wanted, even towards you
I would never hurt you
My anger, my sadness, is directed towards myself
I want to feel the rush of hurling myself at walls
Want to feel the thud of skin against bone against hollow plaster and wooden frame
I want to feel nails run down fabric; soft, thin and fragile
Want to see them tear things apart, see feathers spill out or paint chip, all jagged and frantic
I want this and I don’t want this
I glide nails across skin, across rashes along my hand
I find myself stagnant as my joints itch for action
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
I curse the mind's divine plan
as I lay in valley's low
gazing upon myself a god
and a perfect smile aglow
whilst I toil in my misery
my soul tied with stones
my statue's likeness stands above
revolted at his lesser clone
Look at how he humbly gloats
His skin golden perfection
A mind more clear than unstained glass
A body crafted in circumspection
but though I pull my nails
with a revised renewed edition
with every labored detail
capturing perfection
this tortuous image
calms my heart
stabbing it with hope
for a better start
and I hear whispers in my valley
selling nectars of complacency
spinning truths from fantasy
of how I too one day may be
but as my hands try to summit
the hill soars ever higher
and my mind it pities me below
Remaining on my pyre
and my blood steams
and irrational rashes grow
as I come to realize
I'll forever remain below
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
There's no one who bugs me, irks me and makes me mad.
There's no one who hounds me, pesters me and irritates me.
There's no one who angers me by forgetting special occasions,
or forgetting to call,
or gets unsalted butter rather than salted at the grocers.
Only You.
There's no one who makes me roll my eyes
with his twisted philosophy, illogical excuses and faked innocence.
There's no one who makes me purse my lips in disagreement,
when he comes home from so-called overtime work,
smelling of cigarette smoke and whiskey.
There's no one who makes me bare my teeth with exasperation,
when he doesn't talk when I want him to,
when he seems to not listen when I think he needs to.
Only You.
There's no one else who knows to buy me tulips,
when he's trying to ask for my forgiveness.
There's no one else who sings "Wonderful Tonight" off-key,
when he sees me in my most tattered pajamas,
with my hair standing on end
and my cheeks and neck crawling with rashes.
There's no one who cooks a meaner chicken soup,
when I'm sick and force-feeds it to me in bed.
Only You.
There's no one who kisses me in the sweetest,
most breath-taking way in the park,
in the rain while we're jogging.
There's no one who makes me laugh
with his spot-on impression of my favorite comedian,
while watching a home video on date night,
and sharing a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
There's no one who makes love to me in such a selfless,
most gentle way, making me feel like
I'm the most loved, most special girl in the world.
Only You.
There's nobody else who makes me love him,
who makes me want to keep loving him,
in all his perfection, all his imperfection,
all the things that make him a man.
There's nobody that I am most willing
to brave all the storms with,
nobody I desire to grow old with,
and give all of my self to...
Only You.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
Your legs are open vividly.
Your thighs still lie spread needing it.
You’re waiting for ***********
With desperate anticipation
To anxiously end temptation
In warm blood, cold sweat, more sleek ***
And bruises, scratches, rashes, lust.
My legs are standing parallel.
My feet flat grounded wanting it.
I’m waiting for that enchantment
With nothing but hopeful patience
To finally end loneliness
In warm sweat, cold tears, more sleek blood;
And bruises, slashes, deep wounds, love.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
my fingernails short when i scratch them through the dirt, carving furrows in the ground. my dry mouth stinging with hot air. you say that we're unlucky but we're lucky to have each other. you say we're birds of a feather but i suspect you are a wolf. you found the open parts of me and thought to fill them with your name. REPENT!!REPENT!!REPENT!! REPENT!!DEATH DRAWS NEAR AS YOU LICK THE FILTH FROM YOUR FINGERS, SINNER!!SINNER!!GOD HATES UGLY GOD HATES ***** GOD HATES DESPERATE HANDS TWITCHING LIKE DYING FLIES YOUR YELLOW TEETH ARE PROOF OF THE SULFUR IN YOUR BLOOD!!YOUR STICKY LIPS ON THE WHITE CLIFFS OF MY TEETH, YOU CANT KISS AWAY A SNARL!!REGRET THE WAY YOU PRESSED YOUR PALMS TOGETHER WHITE KNUCKLED AND STIFF!!REGRET YOUR SELFISH PRAYERS!!GOD HATES ANGRY GOD HATES SAD THE FIFTH CIRCLE OF HELL HAS A SPOT SAVED FOR THE BOTH OF US, SINNERS SCARLET LETTERS LIKE RASHES!!!REPENT!!your favorite dress, hem brushing your ankles, dust in the stitches. your soft hands with fingers in my arteries. your eyes squeezed shut when you cry. i am living out of spite. im living for revenge. im living to prove im better than you. look me in the eyes when you pull your fingers from my heart. SINNER!!WIND CHAPS YOUR FACE RED AND YOU PEEL DEAD SKIN BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS, I PRAY MYSELF IMMORTAL THE BACKGROUND RADIATION SCREAMS *ILL ******* **** YOU* I AM SPEAKING!!I SPEAK THROUGH COSMIC NOISE *ILL ******* **** YOU!!* IM SPEAKING TO YOU!!SINNER!!SINNER! REPENT!I AM DIVINE I AM SAINTED I AM HOLY I AM GOING TO HELL
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
A post apocalyptic tongue
Weighing heavy and dormant in your mouth
As you hitchhike south,
Stopping only to say hello to the
Forget-me-nots
On the side of the road.
Your lips are chapped, dry.
One bite away from blood.
Your blonde hair snarls and snaps
Around your finger.
A Venus fly trap.
You are Venus.
A beautiful weapon of mass destruction.
You can start wars
With a face like that.
You spread your legs for
Boys who smell of wine.
You spread your legs for
Men with wallets fatter than their bellies.
You spread your legs for
Yourself because it feels good.
They brand you a sinner.
Construct a neon sign and
Point it at you.
You forget
Girls don’t do that.
And girls don’t drink
And girls don’t smoke
And girls don’t curse or kick or fight
Or hitchhike south
Or embrace their beauty
Or say hello to the forget-me-nots
On the side of the road
Or stumble home,
Wherever home is,
Drunk and reeking of
Cigarettes and ***** with
Last night’s lover still in their hair.
But you are not a girl.
You are Venus
And you are dangerous.
A bouquet of cries for help.
You sit in diners
With strangers and speak loudly of
Of rashes and scars.
You sit in ivory towers,
Knitting dresses and scratching
At the stone.
You stand on the sidelines
And snap your gum.
They tell you you can’t.
Your voice stings their eardrums.
Your voice is a thunderstorm.
You are a thunderstorm.
You are hitchhiking south with a
Hand full of forget-me-nots and
Blood rolling down your chin.
You are not a girl.
You are Venus.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Today she told me she made it through every
try out round for
America’s Next Top Model and when
she went home to tell her girlfriend that she made it on the show,
she got her face beat in so bad, Miss Jay didn’t even
recognize her the next day.
She wasn’t on the show.
——
Today is roses,
wilted petals,
flowers from I-don’t-know-where
that have landed in our bathroom,
have sunk themselves in an empty bottle of ***
two handles on the side,
the better to smell them with.
——
Today I am covered in a museum collection of
bug bites and lumps and
scratches and bruises
and leg rashes
and I don’t know where anything has come from,
not even
me.
——
Today he asked me how the poetry is coming.
I said it is slow.
——
Today I wanted to kiss a boy because it was his birthday,
and I don’t think he’s ever kissed a girl before,
and I think he should
if he wants to
on his birthday.
——
Maybe I will tomorrow.
——
Today has barely begun, is three hours in
was 6 minutes too late to buy
gas station beer
but we bought two cigarillos
and on the drive back,
talked to three kids who had just seen a UFO.
I missed it.
——
Today he threw a tomato at my face,
and it slid off and landed on the floor with a splat as I screamed.
There were customers.
——
Today I had to explain why I keep
leaving people.
I have to be alone, I said.
——
Today I dressed for myself.
Thank God.
——
Today I listened to country music and covered my ears
because they hurt but also it hurt
to not listen to it with my Dad in the truck, driving
anywhere
but today I picked a boy up and taught him how to swing me around
and he picked me up and spun me in his arms and
I think that’s how you do country.
——
Today my cis, male, white, Mormon, wait-till-marriage-to-have-sex English teacher
talked about **** shaming
and the patriarchy
and he gets it
and thank God.
——
She is auditioning to model, again.
There is no one to take her face away.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
**** stained drainpipe
raining pain
unexplained sameness
expressed
in veiny legs
egg salad crustacean
situationally challenged
prophetic procreator
bending spoons
and your will
shill trolls on and on
seeking weakness
tweeking while twerking
discolored molars twinkle
baboons ***
shiner dines on refined lime
mining dimes
unwound ground cover
lamenting
lack of green
queen like boy toy bounds across the turnpike
exhilarated and misinformed
dorm room ****
forlorn
sounding horn born of jazzy lips
quips to the mainstream
hipsterism is like a disease
complete with rashes and bumpy outbreaks
15 century rake awaits her date
and is placed on the stake
for a belief in an alternative
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
I have no theories to share but my thoughts make up facts of their own. The light buzz that you feel when sitting standing and being still;
Like blind city lights with no blurs in between
the sting and pestering rashes random pair of eyes leave on your skin;
the space between your baby hairs and sweaty tanks;
the one that leaves pursed pores when kissed stroked and grazed on. A museum with your scattered footsteps only,
but your stories are ceilings today, leaving long chapters in people’s minds; lazily untouched by a misunderstood question.
Or an abused rock.
The many hours spent with palms crouched, held over still telephones.
The thin line of desperate expectation vibrates. On. On. And on.
On still. A ring cracks the dialogue in your mind.
The walls sigh at your mother’s worried tone peeling the spaces in your eardrums, your heart, and your will to live.
“Your sister asked of you today, do you not want to see her again?”
I don’t know. The mirror hasn’t said a thing yet. My body shook as I walked today and the world felt funny. I couldn’t will my pulses to stop racing time. Water came out from my pits; forehead and the ocean had no apologies to offer.
I opened my lips long enough to snap them hard, sufficient to miss my tongue. That’s your eyes scurrying away and me sinking again.
The phone is full of rhetorical questions and the world feels heavy but the ground seems light and my tongue feels dry.
There’s a stem with broken branches where my life seeps out, hurriedly, out of pale skin. The missed train will understand. The pills that were never enough will understand. The weak rope will understand. The short buildings with deceitful apex will understand. Missed opportunities’, heaps on heaps on heaps, will understand. My sister’s polite concern will understand. And so will my mother’s constant worries.
But my theories remain the same. A misunderstood fact. The mirror stares back, blank and patient;
like the blood sputtering out my tongue wasn’t reason enough.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
.
I once was young on shores of pond,
Deep in clump grasses mossy, longed
By seasons that turned shining winds,
Older than years etched into tree rings,
I played at song in the rushes of marsh,
Danced to moon from my bedroom loft
And in the theaters of starlight shadow,
Wrote my fables after sleeping narrows,
Dreamed dreams as young boy should,
Rethinking Sophocles in hemlock wood
I named the flowers wildest within sun,
Built forts from the forest floors of ruin,
Burned in rashes of ivy, itching poison,
Swam by water snakes in mucky unison
Spring was tireless as nettles and bees,
A wide river glided into the seven seas,
Pond was lake and oceans uncharted,
Skies rolling thunder after lightenings
More gold than lots' aspirations prised,
All showers flamed, Promethean fires.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
~~
my world, my womb
unconditioned but air conditioned
too many frequencies make fusions
many more intuitions gathered a lot intentions
grew great confusions
my womb, my world
the ultimate heaven that proven the sense of love
that belongs spring that sprung
my mother's face
that certainly traced a weird tune which grew red rashes,
scratches on my mother lower abdomen
I'm just eight months old
and my skin getting cold,
Even I could not told to my mother what I gather in the womb
If I make the images zoom and
if somehow her rose will bloom
which only gain,
a huge pain that could not share or even bare
the world that never care
to my mother
where there is my womb, my world
and I'm only eight months old,
getting cold,
too cold...
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
walks over dry asphalt
in the blistering summer sun
blister on top of blister
skin red and flakey
Heat rashes
are worth it
when momma gives me a dollar
after the white truck says
"Hello"
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
We are not pens, ourselves, red ink is not inside of us.
But we do have sensitive blood that is discolored, same as that utensil.
Difference is: it poisons us, gives us rashes and thoughts that we are not worthy to have. It wrecks our minds with ancient tools that were once unaccepted. Silly poppies can not
Ruin us like that. I know what can.
The things that worry us, teenagers and babies, parents and pedophiles;
Cease your worries. I pity you, teens.
"It is fun, it is fun." I know I know. But is it worth the risk?
Cease your worries parents. You don't need to stalk your own children.
They learn from their mistakes. They cry for a while and then get stronger.
Like I did, why I kept my mouth shut for so long,
I was better. Until you began to read. I couldn't go to you specifically for that reason,
Tightening your hold on me, mother. I am already a prisoner in my own mind.
I don't need another warden.
A century long breakthrough gave me something,an understanding that not all children accept
Their parents. I don't feel at home there.
It is not one. Just a house that I stay in, people I live with. They are family, by blood only.
****** ink: my savior. My hero, love, is you. You inspired me to digitalize, write with graphite.
But I am still contaminated, mind wandering,
History repeating, sounds piercing, a test is too much when I did not study.
Help me. The trials this has put me through are unfair. Give me my pen to sign a contract, but I
Poison myself instead. Only okay after after a needle enters my streams and takes it out.
A mechanical vampire, I prefer you to bit me instead of metal fangs.
And now I dream.
.
.
.
.
.
Or maybe I am not. We have lived as such long enough. But, still,
Write about it. Tell me how you feel. But be careful not to poison yourself.
I have experience with that. The pen has a hidden blade. It cuts you with every word you
Lay in front of you. May I be a word? Scratch my love into your skin?
I will not intoxicate you as it would. I will give you something else entirely.
But my dream ends. Reality steps on me and takes my breath from me, I am suffocating in this Hellhole. Give me a firehouse so I can put it out and drink away my parched lips.
They need to be soft so I can speak, but first... I need to
Sew my lips shut. If they are dry, they will rip and open. We don't want that.
Keep them shut, don't tear open and bleed; you would give ink poison to
Mockingbirds if you do. They mock me, copy me. They tell me they are jealous.
But why? They don't know they've been poisoned.
It is a cycle. Everyone will die of it in the end.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
I’ve been walking
So long
So far
Weary eyes
Sweat cakes
Blood soaked rashes
My best friend’s taunt.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been trusting
So long
So far
Wronged tales
Spiked hormones
Nauseating future
My mom’s warn.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been resting
So Long
So Far
Gliding on tides
Erratic refrains
Clumped bones
My doctor’s threat.
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
I’ve been blind
So Long
So Far
Stuttering steps
Coal filled iris
Yearns mourns of woes
Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 4:00 PM UTC
you cover up your fragile skin,
butterfly rashes that snake
their way down your ribs,
paper-thin and streaked with
veins, you call your blood ‘parasite.’
if you were to be believed, you thought that meant
that your pain was to be performed.
to not touch you was a punishment,
but still, you question her insistence
to gnaw at your skin.
bruises that are pretty,
insisted upon you like the ******* leeches
she promises will purge your blood,
your parasite.
“Oh, how lovely it is to be owned.”
there was nothing to be said for teeth,
except “please,” silent stop strangled under your tongue,
but there is something to be said
for this warmth, now,
the first ‘now’ that was never ‘then.’
you do not taste blood when they kiss you.
parasitic blooms on the fragile,
flaking skin of your throat heal, slowly,
when let to rest
under the quiet askance of trust.
maybe that’s what this is.
lately, you’ve learned that you do not enjoy being bitten,
what you loved was giving blood.
lately, you’ve learned that there really are people
who will not ask you to bleed.
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 10:06 PM UTC