"razors" poems
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.
for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?
the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.
no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.
so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.
hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.
instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son
I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Dear Math,
I wrote this letter to let you know how I feel about you. The thing is much as you love me so much, we can never be an Item when all you do is torture my brain and break my heart.
You claim to be a linguist, yet you know none of my languages. You don't know Kiswahili neither do you know English and only speak Algebra and statistics...I loathe you for all you do is play on my mind with words like Sigma and Meu, factorial and co-factor.You claim you want to be the only one but still ask me to find your X without even telling me Y.Well, grow up and solve your own problems because I'm tired of solving them for you.Just walk out of my life forever and not temporarily like the dew. You have hurt me enough with razors of matrices, pinched me simultaneously and never asked me whether I believed in your ancient beliefs like those of Pythagoras or not. We were never meant to be. I found a new one, her name is literature and she loves me so much.I won't apologize for saying I hate you because It's unfair apologizing for saying the truth.
Yours with anger
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
I have a message
For you haters
You're the wreckage
Your words like razors
No longer shall I keel
To your decimating attitude
I have an intransigent zeal
Of undeniable magnitude
Your reign of terror
Now a speck in the past
Your puppet strings I sever
Now free I feel, at last
I dare you, I dare you
Try to cut me down
But be warned, I will strew
Your face all over the ground
No longer am i afraid.
All the hated, it's time to stand
All the haters, it's time to be repaid
No more worries, just grains of sand
The tides now change
Deny them their satisfaction
Their power has no range
Haters, this is your termination
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
It's so much easier to make the same mistakes
to wage a war upon myself
It's so much simpler to smile in your face
to wish that I were someone else
I'm so **** hurtful
but only to my own skin
I'm worth so much more
but I'll still draw blood again
And when will I let myself go
And when will I push far
And when will It be to late
And when will I stop opening the same scars
It's barely past midnight
Red is all I see
A innocent boy who's shattered
A beautiful catastrophe
But who will help him now
Cause he's still making the same mistakes
But who will fight for his life
When he feels he's nothing but a waste
And when does this war end
Cause I still crave razors against my skin
When I look into the mirror
It's still a reflection I can't withstand
Back at war again
Under your sleeve is the battlefield
A million casualties
Tallied are battles that have healed
Be a warrior
Scar tissue is tougher than regular skin
Be a warrior
Find your strength from within
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.
When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.
When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.
High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.
Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.
The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.
How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.
How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.
If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Your ***** is funky
Dripping nectar like fine wine
Your ***** is thick
Fine hairs, crazed and divine
Your ***** don’t taste like water
It smells like a grown woman do
Your thighs are black
And slick with dew
Your ***** looks fuzzy
Your thighs do too
Razors don’t show it love
And chub rub burns it like glue
Your ***** ain’t pink
It ain’t petite
Its quite fat
Your ***** still pretty
Not that you needed affirmation of that fact
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
When we fell asleep video chatting every night for a month
When I cried because you were the first person to make me feel like I wasn’t alone
When you excitedly told me about kissing a girl in a cemetery
When you sent me videos of your dirt bike
When we went cruising and listened to songs from our favourite band
When you tried to teach me how to game
When you told me everything you love about your girlfriend
When you talked about engines and cars with me even though I didn’t understand
When you saw I was feeling bad even at the one place I’m always happy
When you didn’t ask questions when I asked you to get rid of my razors, but instead told me how proud you were
When you held me as I cried, knowing I hate crying in front of people
When you let me fall asleep holding you even though I was cold and wet
When you held my hand when we woke up on the day when everyone had to leave
When you let me hug you a hundred times because you knew how much I’d miss you
When you gave me closeness and friendship and love unlike anything I’d ever known before
When we sat in my porch for 3 hours after fireworks were shot at people during a party, so you could make sure I was okay
When you let me cuddle you even though your friends would give you a hard time
When you told me you’d help me out if anyone ever hurt me
When you took a selfie with me
When you carried me everywhere *** I was tired
When you held my hand going down a steep trail because I couldn’t see and you knew I was scared
When you brought me extra food because you knew I skipped lunch
When you were protective over who I was friends with
When I came over to your house for the first time and we made pizza, gamed, and hung out with your family
When you had you first kiss with me
When you always showed you were protective of me and became the big brother I never had
When you told me you were bi on the first day we met
When you told me that only people you know well or that you like get to know you’re bi
When you cried and told me all your favourite facts and memories of a friend who had betrayed you
When you told me I had a cute nose
When you fell asleep holding my hand
When we hugged eachother after not seeing eachother for a year
When we kissed for the first time
When we kissed more
When you were my date
When you told me I was the only non-celebrity you’d go gay for
When we danced together
When we agreed to have an annual one week relationship
When you were the first girl I loved
When I met these people I never thought we’d get to the point were at now.
I doubt I’ve effected their lives as much as they’ve effected mine but it doesn’t even really matter because I have them and that’s all that matters to me
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
i kept my hatches battened but that
didn't stop your love from barreling toward me
like a runaway freight train with faulty breaks.
and god almighty, did we crash.
you came to a screeching halt at my doorstep
and i didn't know what else to do but let you in.
you looked so cold. we did not start with a spark but a full-on fire.
i told myself i wouldn't fall, instead i jumped.
our sinking frames somehow morphed into life preservers,
and we managed to keep each other's heads above the waves.
we had seemingly saved one another.
you tossed your pills, i flushed my razors, and for a while that was enough.
but we learned the hard way that even the deepest love
can only keep the storm clouds in your mind at bay for so long.
eventually our cracks began to show.
missed calls and silent hours built houses of cards
that were blown down by too many miles.
we hardly ever smiled anymore.
my hands were sieves and yours were sand.
i want to break the hands of the clock
that cursed us with this bad timing.
i have mourned all the hours i won't ever have with you.
i have felt the thunder that rumbles in my lungs
when i reminisce about the memories we'll never make.
the moment i realized i would never wake up beside you
an atom bomb went off in the center of my chest.
but the radiation is what's killing me.
the life is being drained from me here in the wake,
in the ache of your absence. but i won't beg.
i will live out the remainder of my days
tormented by wondering if maybe in another world
our love is perfect and neither of us bleed.
- m.f.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
I woke up to screams from a stolen razor. Where is it? It was a loud scream. The end comes swiftly, anyway,
and, if there are no razors around, it comes even faster.
At the top of the mountain, the anger flows to the valley, and there is no scream.
In the valley, we wait.
There is a pull from a cigarette.
Small talk that is not small talk.
A man wheezes
A woman wonders where she'll go tomorrow
it comes out as a laugh
and lightly in the background plays a song that can only be called the disease of the 80's.
We didn't need another.
But, thank you.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
5.9k
i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Don’t love me.
Please, don’t love me.
I know myself, we’re quite close actually, and let me tell you, you don’t want to fall for her,
you don’t want that girl, I hate her.
I hate her because I know her so well and I know how horrible the truth can smell.
Don’t love me, because even I know to hate myself,
the vanity that despite this loathing I might actually believe that someone could fall for me.
Don’t love me.
Don’t love me, because I met Heartbreak once and she left me gasping for air
and I will never meet her again.
I refuse, so if you love me, please be aware that when you do,
some day I am going to leave you, battered and bruised, because
twisted self-preservation has taught me all the tricks to keep myself afloat by drowning you.
Don’t love me.
Because as much as I will love you, I’m not friends with Commitment,
and whenever I see him on the horizon I set off running in the opposing direction.
I will treat you like there will be no oxygen unless I’m holding you,
but when you’re the one reaching for my hand I’ll become the wind.
Commitment is not my friend, I said, but no one listens.
Don’t love me, because I am a tornado, a storm to chase until I’ve taken everything from you.
Don’t love me.
Someday, you will be married and happy, and I will
whirl back into your life like the hurricane that has never been named after me, and
you will believe that all your scars
and your broken heart
have healed enough that you can run with me.
But I have razors between my fingers and wedged in my teeth,
and your scabbed over heartstrings will be powerless against me.
I am an expert at running, at hurting, at ‘maybe’s.
Don’t love me.
When you ask me for something more,
I will tell you that I am not ready, because I never will be.
Chances scare me, and trusting someone so much will always be risky.
I will tell you that I am not in the right place for your Commitment,
for your future Heartbreak,
and you will tell me that you understand but you’ll stick with me,
and fire will consume everything.
Don’t love me.
I can’t even go a few years with a friendship before
burning it all for at least a few evenings, but we’ll always rebuild the
rickety ashes of the bridges we’ve passed.
Don’t love me.
I’m only saying it for your safety.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
we always want to re-invent ourselves when we feel
rejected, unwanted, left to the side.
we dye our hair or cut our hair or style our hair
so differently, so drastically, so unrecognizable.
we pack on make-up or strip our make-up
or pierce our faces, belly buttons, get tattoos, choose a permanent mark
to remind us of something solid;
something that represents
self-sufficiency or this too shall pass,
because we know we are gonna feel
rejected, unwanted, left to the side again
(and again, and again).
we buy new clothes, give away old ones to our friends,
new shoes, new bags, new look.
and we’re always picking up new vices, new habits, new addictions.
cigarettes, alcohol, razors,
all the late night reckless binges on wine, narcotics, food, cutting ourselves.
sometimes we pick up healthy ones too,
like running, swimming, dancing, yoga, meditating, resetting sleep patterns, taking vitamins, treating ourselves to the spa, eating regularly, getting out of the house to see friends.
we either avoid intimacy at all costs because we can’t fathom
the concept of trust anymore
or we dive into it with practically anyone, just to feel something real
because we are so ******* lonely,
but we never really feel anything real at all.
we make resolutions, goals, plans for our next relationships
so that they won’t follow the same patterns as our last crumbling ones
(they usually still do).
some of us change what we like, what we want, what we need
to impress people so that they
fall in love with us and will never leave us.
we begin disregarding ourselves for another person,
or disregarding everyone else for ourselves,
both because we don’t want to get hurt again.
and then somewhere, somehow after weeks, months, maybe even years of
the full fledged wavering of
destruction meeting recovering meeting ignorance meeting shyness meeting loneliness meeting accepting meeting fear,
we start to see the intricacies of the pattern much clearer -
we make all of these sudden changes because
we just want to feel better,
we just want to be better;
that’s all.
it’s taking charge, which is healthy.
it’s also making fact and point that we need to change to deserve love,
which is unhealthy.
all of it is like learning algebra for the first time,
some of us take a bit longer to understand it all; the formulas, the variables, the balance.
and once we understand the formula, the variables and the balance,
then we can welcome back the beautiful,
real version
of ourselves we’ve been trying to
cover up.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
My best friend tells me that she was born in the wrong time.
That her viking ancestors would be ashamed of how much
she can't handle. How she's no warrior.
So I take her to a powwow that my sister's dancing at
and let her feel the vibrations of the drums
pound through her feet.
I tell her maybe our war drums are our heartbeats.
She's fighting herself and using razors as her soldiers.
I say, if you need sharp things let's use arrows to figure
out where east is so we can run towards the rising sun
like my ancestors did.
We can use words as our shield walls in battle
and I can be the dragon head on your ship
to scare off the enemy in dark and foggy times.
If you want to get a little pagan I'll burn all my sage for you
and we can pray to all the gods we've heard stories of.
I'll teach you all the tricks my shima’ sani taught me.
We are warriors. But is it selfish of me to hope that you
never go to Valhalla? I want you to live long after
the fighting ends.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
He is only 10 he should
be crying beacuse he
feel down,not beacuse
someone called him a ***
She's only 12,she
should be playing with
makeup,not razors..
He's only 14 he should be out with his freinds,
not tying ropes...
She's only 16, she
should be out on dates,
not staraving herself...
They were all 18, they
should have been
celebrating graduation,
not a furneral...
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
God ****** God ****** God ****** depression is a ***** like why TF this **** gotta sneak up on me like this, **** I'mma go to bed and not sleep I guess I'll lay with my lonesome till 3am and listen to my heart beat while I think ignoring the voices in my head telling me things like i’d be better off dead like as if despite the fact I wish my ticker would stop ticking
But it won't, I wish I could c u t my own heart out with a knife but that's sounds boring so I dont I wish a niger could cry a nigers burdens away but a.nigg*rs tear ducts are dry so I guess ill roll a joint and burn it away and then when I run out I'll break out the razors is in a slice in a way that will make the sane wonder how but what the **** is it to you who are you to say that I'm important to you who are you to say that I'm a lovely human being just ******* please, i didn't ask your assistance no offense just leave me to my being because I disagree I wish you would ask me if I thought that I was as important I wish you'd ask me if I thought I was lovely cuz I'd say no I'm autistic trash and to me that **** is ugly cuz despite what I can do I can't do most of it mother ****** I thought I was a man, well I guess I was born with most of it I just want to ******* die no letter no notes no reasons why cuz I told you when I told you then I told you again did you think that was a lie you must have presumed that it's a cry for attention are you out of your ******* mind don't worry its okay to make the jokes it doesn't hurt at all it's okay to mock me it doesn't phase a bit, but I guess you will you learn to shut your ******* mouth when you find my body its wrist slit but I guess it's kind of my fault because I smile every time they ask me if I'm fine god ****** god ****** god ****** Depression is a ***** like why the **** this **** got to sneak up on me like this
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
I feel numb as the blade skates across my skin,
I thank God my pain is gone again,
and when I'm done I hide away,
in my room is where I wish to stay,
I'm trapped in this room of darkness once more,
and all I have to do is walk through that door,
I want to get the help I need,
so to my mother I shall plead,
mom please take these razors away'
for home is where I wish to stay.
#me #razor-blades #cuts #scars
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
I wish that I was dead.
The thought has scared me for as long as I can remember.
and it scares me because I'm terrified at how close the thought becomes reality each day.
At school; walking by the main road to class, building up the courage to throw myself into the busy traffic.
At home; the knowledge that there are razors in the room behind me.
At night; the morbid dream scenarios my mind creates.
I wish that I was dead.
I wish that I was dead.
But I don't want to feel the slow pain of suicide.
You have no idea how grateful I would be if someone could take the choice away from me - if I could be caught in a horrible accident, or develop a fast-acting and fatal disease.
And I know it sounds like a horrible thing to say, but I really do.
I wish that I was dead.
I wish that I was dead.
I cant do anything some days without screaming the words in my head.
IwishIwasdeadIwishIwasdeadIwishIwasdeadIwishIwasdead.
I know that so man people have it so much worse than me.
I know that I'm selfish.
I know that I would put the people I love through hell.
But,
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
I can't bear the pain I cause myself.
The pain I cause others.
The pain they cause me.
I could scream the truth to them in a pool of my own blood, and they would still ask; "why did you have to make such a mess?"
Nothing that I do matters anymore.
Nothing that I do is worth it now.
Even the things that I love hurt me endlessly.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
The people I love and the people who love me.
They don't even realise that they **** me with every breath.
Every word.
Every heartbeat.
I know that they love me. Now.
but I'm not sure how much more of their punishment I can endure.
they don't even notice.
God,
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
And there is nothing that anyone can tell me that will change that. Not forever.
Because what I say, I mean with my whole heart;
I have loved.
I have been loved.
I have known true happiness,
and I have known true pain.
And still,
I wish that I was dead.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 11:37 AM UTC
Your always playing the victim or guilt tripping me.
With eyes wide open, tell me what you see.......
The dark green forest falls quiet in the blackest night.
With a fresh, bleak snow hiding a monster out of my sight.
Down the path and out through the thistles
Escaping "it's" lungs pierce the night sky like a whistle.
Suffocating with fear, now I know that I'm done
Before the battle begins, "it" thinks the battle won.
I'm in shock on the ground and can't move not one little bit.
My head in my hands, falling down, not wanting to quit.
"It's" eyes are my death and "It's" thoughts are of pain
The storm clouds approaching, but it's not going to rain.
The distance between us nearly closes right in
Now, the true test is here, terror right under the skin.
"It's" voice is demonic and sounds of my demise.
Just the sight of "it" and I start praying for a painless goodbye.
I run and I run, but no chance, I will make it
So stygian now that I'm bleeding, falling into a steep pit.
Pitch-black of all hollows, reaching for the next mental wall.
My legs are all bruised up and wrist broken from the fall.
My screams are like razors that cut through the air
As I jump like a rabbit and out where it is clear.
The insects are buzzing to warn me to stop soon.
A symphony of the night just humming it's' tune.
And here is where I left you, as I stand toe to toe.
I told you before I just want you to go.
You have no goodness inside, just a monster, you've made.
The battle within your own mind will, again, be replayed.
As you turn and walk away, I wipe away a fresh teardrop
You've hurt me all that I can allow and now you must stop.
Master manipulator and thief, you've stolen my heart.
You showed me I was strong that day , now I can have a fresh start.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Dear God,
I know we have not talked for a while
but there are still some questions
I need you to answer.
I never doubt your existence,
but I doubt you are kind at heart.
Why did you give me eyes?
Only to see people suffer?
Only to see fathers
abusing their daughters,
mothers hurting their sons?
You give me eyes
and I want to scratch them out.
I am too tired of crying all night.
Why did you give me ears?
Only to hear endless screams?
Only to listen to stories of destruction,
of void and eternal dark,
of suicide, mother of all self-abuse.
Listen how smile turns into tears,
and silent whispers
becomes screams so loud,
and I can't stand them!
HELP! HELP! HELP!
Why did you give me ears
if they are of no use?
Why did you give me hands?
Only so I can touch the scars?
To feel the cuts on the inside?
To cut myself
with words,
not razors,
when I am trying to write.
Why in all this chaos of life
I feel like I was born
with my hands tied?
Why can't I stop them
from hurting others
and themselves,
from smoking another cigarette,
or from drinking,
until they drink themselves to death,
from going to bed with strangers,
out of pure disrespect for themselves,
from accepting the twisted judgments of society,
and carving the verdicts into their bodies and heads.
From taking strange medical substances,
and non-medical as well,
just to be accepted
by people that never care.
Why did you even give me heart?
Only to be broken?
By what? Love?
Bigger lie cannot be spoken!
It's just selfish desire
of touching the skin
of other human being.
Having control,
reserving their body
all for yourself.
Or worse,
sharing pieces of soul,
never to return,
when the cracks from within
reach out and break you apart.
Dear God,
I accept I'm inferior and so very limited,
but in your holiness and immortality,
why is there beauty,
laced with suffering,
innocence,
treated with hate,
happiness,
mixed with pain,
smile,
embraced with grief.
I understand
there is no rainbow
without the rain,
but give me some hope to believe...
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Cecily burned herself with cigarettes
& scratched herself all the time,
she even used razors
to etch bloody-artwork
into her flesh,
so milky white.
She was the prettiest flower
in the bouquet &
carried the most robust spirit.
Her eyes reflected
ocean-hues,
sunlight glowed off
her chopped-hair,
an Eveready battery,
she never stopped.
Just a spit of a woman,
she had the biggest set of *****
that most men
could only dream about,
die for.
And it killed me to see
her get into these
self-destructive habits.
It always left me wondering
why such a cute baby doll,
this bad *** warrior-woman,
would want to create
such randoms acts of pain.
But then again,
the answer was in her eyes,
unspoken & blue.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC