She's such an addict, writing on her skin,
paper thin phrases she prays her mother never sees
so they don't get ripped from her wrists and
ankles as the ink drips down onto her
fingertips where she licks it off, a stream of
bitter insecurities on the tip of her tongue.
She drifts in streams of lilac trees
where beauty grows like moss upon her shoulders
and mixes with copper hair, hiding
those eyes, shattered storm puddles placed
in her face to gaze so solemnly up at a
sun of melting butterscotch candy
from a flower stained grave.
She dances for the starlight and
folds her body into origami shapes so the
moon will kiss her unashamed skin with its rays;
she wouldn't quite call it worship when she
twists her hands in floral patterns across her chest,
it's more of a falling in love all over again
with the nighttime breezes that caress her cheeks as
garish daylight sinks away until her
mouth is filled with pretty, silent music
that only she can truly hear.
Her dreams are made of honey droplets and
spider silk wound tightly around streambed curves
and a ribbon of regret encircling her emaciated waist;
she is made of bones and skin and plumb flesh
she pinches playfully, gleaming at the marks she leaves.
She devours words, her lips taking in
all the unpleasant lies that drip from others' mouths;
she loves to drink the wine of disdain and angst that
speaks o f deadly summers and their poison songs
being sung to our eyes, to our lives;
she wants to believe the blasphemous wonders
painted in the melted butter lyrics that
assault her ears like safety glass shards,
almost sharp enough to touch her splintered almost soul.
She speaks in third person like someone
forgot to tell her that she isn't a character
in the book she is sure is being written at this moment;
with silver strands of jubilant sorrow
flowing through her bloodstream, she feels so
different from everyone else, like a stranger
walking around, a tattoo on her forearm with
swirls and twisted words spelling out an
undefined mural of what her life is supposed to be,
what everyone is supposed to see when they look into her eyes.
She wants to be original, but she still
writes poetry about love because maybe
she wants it too, maybe she can't get
someone out of her head, out of her heart;
that just makes her e ever more a part of the majority,
not that being a minority is very difficult when
freak is written across her forehead and
her mouth is sewn shut by a flame blacked needle
with thread made from ripped up photographs of
what she was sure love was made of.
Now she runs bony fingers thought her chipped hair,
snow sprinkled on her eyelashes, waiting for him;
dust is collecting on her knees, a dark veil across her eyes
hiding the fear that he'll never come again.
She is lost and poetic, she is burning and alive,
it's time for her to realize that he's not part of her;
it's time for her to whisper goodbye to everything.
she feels multicolored pain seeping into her
just-healed bones like all the horizon rainbows
are really bullets being shot from pretty guns,
driven into her flesh and leaving unseen scars
that make her all the more unbeautiful.
She strips down to her frozen flesh and sings
in a low voice of hopelessness for what never was
and what remains of nothingness; her mouth is but a
bucket being filled with water words,
reflections of the dying skies and darkened stars
that no longer shine for her.
Her fingers wrap around the shoulders of
people who want to hold her, want to love her,
and she cries for them because she can only
bring them anguish; in their eyes she sees
that they need someone more, someone better, and that
she really is meant to walk alone along the paths of life,
because brokenness isn't meant to be shared.
Wet falls through her fingers in tasty raindrops;
she wants to soak them through her skin and
become the storm instead of flesh, but
they slide off her body, laughing at her tears
masked by the ever plummeting shards of water
echoing as the splash in dramatic death throes.
She loathes the sensations but can't help adoring
all the precious little things that surround her;
she is a mess of confusion and ignorance and
she is everything that she can't stand in a person.
She wants to live and wants to die but is too sacred of
breathing to stop her breaking lungs from collapsing
because air is the reality she doesn't want to believe;
it means she can't pretend that being alone
doesn't' scare her more than anything.
Her eyelids are dropping across muddy
white stones softly lodged in her head,
and sleep might be longer for it she weren't
already dreaming things that no one wants to see;
maybe she really is crazy, but it doesn't matter,
since that's what everyone keeps telling her anyway.
She still believes in her sanity, most days,
believes in lost love and being original in some
painfully cliché ways that long for everything
she can't have, but why shouldn't she?