February 13, 2012
This is the story of a life interrupted. A story half begun- ended.
Delilah Jones was seventeen-
breaking rules like basement windows,
just to get a glimpse of the outside.
She liked to stroll the streets at night
with boys who liked smashing pumpkins
and her friend who was her friend and not
Delilah Jones was the daughter
of a lost and wasted past, the mother
of inconstancies. She would pluck weeds
by the stems to behead the flower. And like them
she was a headless weed, ugly and dried out
in the sweet summer sun.
When it snowed, she walked the streets
with those people she could at least handle,
and fat snowflakes would hang trapped in the air
above her, a fly stuck on the gossamer line that
travelled between the streetlamp and her nose.
Snowfights at night, running away when she
wasn't supposed to. Thinking the fog in the
fields at night were so -fucking- gorgeous,
and she would pluck these memories like
fresh plums. Storing them away in the cellar
of her mind, for better days. For when
the proverbial shit hits the
not so proverbial fan.
Her friends called her Lilah-
and they called her niceties, but mostly
they just talked about the things that were
soft. Things that could not hurt a child because
she hadn't decided to grow up yet. So she didn't.
They talked of things like laughs, like
boys and games and silly jokes.
And the swing sets, the walks, the things that
pulled her away from the darkness she'd constantly
Her distractions were beautiful.
Her happiness was short lived and a
double-edged knife. The thinned blade
wore down on her for so long and so much
that Lilah became a thread, cut shorter and shorter
every moment. "Miss Jones, this is not how a young lady
should act." And she said okay.
And the bonfires-smoke breaks-winter walks-snowfights-
were gone. They disappeared one day.
Smoke from a crushed cigarette.
"Learn to grow up, Lilah."
Your future is two steps away-
make a fucking decision- make some
fucking choices and do something useful with
your life. Bent cardboard smiles and melted
candlewax obedience. It did not dissolve this time
because of the steel carcass- the mammoth's ribcage
that had been implemented to cut her down,
leave her safe inside.
Safe inside and emaciated, Lilah lay.
With her friendless habitation, her empty hollow
walls that echoed as the only conversation.
Lilah never got the last word. She never got
to make her own choices without being shoved
this way and that. Adapt, adapt or else die.
Fake smiles and take importance in
the shallow. Make good with old
mannequins who love to speak of
and giving up on carefree happiness
for insecurity and over interest in
the things that don't matter.
She tried to care about their days-
about the people they meet,
the dull parties she faked good with.
The inconsistencies of her patience and her
worn out, jaded, ground down excuses
she can't stand to see their faces.
Lilah liked to retreat into quicksand baths-
she liked to think as the granules attached to
the tiny tissues of her lungs.
The bits of sand yell "Al! Alveolar sac!"
Like old acquaintances, they tore the
But, Miss Jones never thought she'd need the oxygen
exchange anyways. She said "fuck that."
Not because she did not care, but because
she did not want to care
To meet Lilah now
you find a mannequin who
finds it hard to love-
finds it strange to want
to be near people.
Lilah's made some mistakes now,
took some pills that weren't bitter in taste,
snuck some secrets out the window,
but now she just lays wasted, a listless,
mindless thing, a sloth hanging.
With cold demeanour,
and withdrawn eyes,
she will not look you in the pupils,
will not talk with you for too long,
because she's afraid she'll hate the one
behind those eyes.
And she is tired of hating.