Telling myself I'm talented, pretending to be deep, fooling others into thinking I'm clever- enjoy.
black hair dye on
my bathroom floor from
you dyed my hair and ruined
my favorite skirt.
this is another
parallel story, and i
don’t understand why
you kissed me if
not for your alcohol content and confusion with
I’d recently read that poetry’s the space between two people naked. whether that meant textiles or apathetic borders, the answer would always be the same. each part of our connection made up enough words and flow to reconstruct The Illiad.
Every factor has a mutual base on “shoulds” and “wants to”. Every piece has a little bit of desire and plenty of emotion incapable of simple symbols and clicks. The problem’s always the timestreams, and knowing of “can’ts” because we’re all scratched records, forced to find minor themes to repeat in the track. So maybe this is just where my song goes: holding the emotion, body, physicality, but the alloys in each bonds can’t quite stick to being terrestrial.
I know I’m giving myself the victim complex; hell if life were a play, I’d know my trope would be the hypochondriac victim crying for a hero. But I didn’t know the word for these happenstances, which made it near impossible to get through middle school and high school. Not without a bestfriend who tore at my hair when I said the wrong things, and pinned me down after I screamed “no” so loudly, people could only hear them as whispers.
bleeding you out so much that I’m left exhausted, and yet you still fill the majority of my veins.
I will always want to know why you wouldn’t have me.
Each time you were brought up
I had to
take another shot so
some hiatus and feel at one with
itself watching my
two best friends get together
rather than dying
due to your fears and cowardice
starting to cry over you again