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Literature Text
The lightning-spliced sky illuminates my bedroom
and I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,
thinking of how there could have been a chance
for me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyes
webbed with emotion, your body limp
from jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,
broken lamps, and permeating heat.
I think of how we could have jogged together
along roadsides and doubled over with thorns
in our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle.
I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truths
I should have told you and how every boy I pass
has your face, your hair, your lips.
And I cry. Oh, do I cry.
I saw you hunched over one day, exhausted
from nightmares, sipping Gatorade and reciting
poetry about there being beauty in decay,
and I couldn't help but think that you
were living proof of that phenomenon.
I wanted to cry for you and tell you about that time
a lady ran into me at Barnes & Noble and I'd had
no earthly idea that I was alive until she turned around
and said, "Watch where you're going!"
There are spiders inside my head. I can feel them
scurrying beneath my skull, and I'm not sure if
I want to rip them out or coil into a ball and
let them have me.
Waves are crashing, a tsunami against
my fragile bones, and I'm going under, drowning.
You had a way of coaxing my lips to smile,
of making the sun shine a little brighter,
of smashing those goddamned spiders,
but as the cliché goes, "that was then and
this is now," and now all I have are shadows,
raging tides, bittersweet memories, and my lying
yet hopeful heart.
and I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,
thinking of how there could have been a chance
for me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyes
webbed with emotion, your body limp
from jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,
broken lamps, and permeating heat.
I think of how we could have jogged together
along roadsides and doubled over with thorns
in our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle.
I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truths
I should have told you and how every boy I pass
has your face, your hair, your lips.
And I cry. Oh, do I cry.
I saw you hunched over one day, exhausted
from nightmares, sipping Gatorade and reciting
poetry about there being beauty in decay,
and I couldn't help but think that you
were living proof of that phenomenon.
I wanted to cry for you and tell you about that time
a lady ran into me at Barnes & Noble and I'd had
no earthly idea that I was alive until she turned around
and said, "Watch where you're going!"
There are spiders inside my head. I can feel them
scurrying beneath my skull, and I'm not sure if
I want to rip them out or coil into a ball and
let them have me.
Waves are crashing, a tsunami against
my fragile bones, and I'm going under, drowning.
You had a way of coaxing my lips to smile,
of making the sun shine a little brighter,
of smashing those goddamned spiders,
but as the cliché goes, "that was then and
this is now," and now all I have are shadows,
raging tides, bittersweet memories, and my lying
yet hopeful heart.
Literature
Broken Hearts Can Still Keep Beating
His hands are not like yours.
Grieving
like lace across glass; a
[a] black galaxy
made a memory of me.
He told me he felt
cast into chaos.
Arms flailing,
he murmured
"A distant red dwarf--
wove stories
of liars."
A subtle kiss of stardust
felt like a promise
holding the world still
but even that
suddenly seemed made up.
I'm sorry,
I still don't know you.
Literature
Colorblind
I gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and
Literature
I Still Bleed
Dagger's out, but I still bleed.
On my heart you unknowingly feed.
When is it I'll be whole?
You're not the owner of my soul.
It's getting better til I sink.
Why do I have to think?
I just want to be safe,
But have no hiding place.
Thoughts will always follow.
They burrow and make me hollow.
So I run as far as I can go.
Maybe the thoughts won't know.
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"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?" – Jeremiah 17:9
An older poem that was not easy to write. Decided to rework and post it.
An older poem that was not easy to write. Decided to rework and post it.
© 2012 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
Comments22
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This poem is so beautiful <3 excellent, amazing job on it. I know how you feel in this situation... me too. Hang in there