turned by the corners. touching the bottom. faces drawn on yellowed paper. torn. petals from her cheeks. folding. creased. strangers. in the blunt pencil strokes that love tends to draw with. and me, fresh out of paint.
she conspires with the woodsman. to erase the breadcrumbs that led to the wolf. and the candy house. where the witch was cooked by the children. dead is dead. and I'm in no mood for a picnic.
sometimes the lie tells us. and we are its victim. all of us monsters. destined to blindness. some sooner than the rest.
the scrape of the hours. pressing against the glass of her skin. bargaining for entry. back into a life that no longer exists. the pantomime of sex. bargains for her body. words are forfeit. in the silence between them. she draws with her eyes. and erases with her fingers.
all the beautiful hurt this world offers to covet. tall bridges to to jump from and the icy waters that beckon from below.
spoiled by the colors. she still remembers. but can no longer see. black ink befriends her. like the quick venom from an angry snake.
she captures each raindrop as it falls. holding it hostage. listening to the squeal of hungry pigs gorging themselves on her shit. a proper feast. hard with sound and fury. delicate with sickness.
the blade came so softly. that she had no idea she was bleeding. nor was she disappointed.
Sunday
9/18/2011 11:58:00 PM
Sad Labels:
acceptance
,
daunted
,
uncertainty
| Life Poems |