I can feel my breath quickening, my hands shaking and trembling so heavily. My vision is blurred, chest heavy as a continuing sense of panic and sadness implant their way into my lungs. I can hear them, the echoes of screams, shouts I thought to never hear again.
But, to be honest, being told you are not fixed is the most heart breaking thing I have ever heard.
I wrapped my hands around your arm, the soft skin sending tingles through each finger. I would smile as you whispered a joke, the brightness of your eyes sweeping onto your cheeks. I breath you in, pulling you tighter against me.
Sorry: A Plea
The ache to become something
worth a person’s suspiring being:
it is a substance that claws and
chomps into your conscience.
The realization that you have
distorted one’s trust
is nothing short of heart wrenching.
To find words that express penitent
I have said that I am struggling,
that I am an unbroken object that
needs to be
You, however, have helped me,
supported me, trusted me
and all I can do is ignore.
I’m so, so sorry.
A Mid Julys night
Songs sung in sunny chirps
Lost lights setting
a summer nights ambiance
Stories for the gutter
Cliches with gore that make the weak stutter
Identify a seamless mind with many names
All these pictures are in the wrong frame
You haunt the girl with your insides
Her name in which he coincides
Rooted in chemical clatter
The lids of bottles often chatter
Go, Get Him!
She said that she thought
That she might have a crush on that guy
Someone she met when
Her time was day and mine was night
She said that she smiled
And that he smiled right back at her
For a lot of time when
I lay awake and alone between words
I said that I loved to hear
How her reality…
The warm night air
hardly touches me.
I reach for any semblance
but the request is not met.
I am hot,
beads of sweat
reaching crevices I once believed
could never be reached.
My eyes droop,
dark chocolate struggling
to remain open as the night
begins to shack up my bones.
Limbs still crave for
something cold, something to
raise each bump on my flesh,
but the night has refused and I
am trapped in this
I’m not broken,
but I still need to be
To see the things that my eyes have caught. To hear the things my sensitive eardrums picked up. For someone to dare to know what I’ve been through, for their lips to flutter against each other as lies clawed their way between: they simply cannot fathom. They cannot, should not, claim to know. Have their hands grasped at promises and hurtful gestures such as I? Or have they smelled aromas and scents of sweat that fell from foreign bodies? Until they placed their feet firmly inside the withering soles of my shoes, then they cannot, shall not, dare to know what I’ve been through.