TodayThere are skeletons of loved ones I never knew locked away in my younger self's closet.i.It's Wednesday and the sky is cold and dark because fall has arrived, and I'm shivering while playing outside with my cousin. I'm six years old and all the nightmares have disappeared and I don't have a care in the world. I'm running, sprinting across the acre field that my aunt settled on thirty years ago. I'm running down the same path that mother ran away from all her problems on.ii.It's Friday and I'm ten years old and I've forgotten what it's like for my lungs to burst after running through weeds.There is no farm, or field, or barn, or a big white mansion anymore because they've rotted away in their graves when everything turned green. (except all the green we owned burned in a tattered fireplace used during Christmas dinner)iii.It's Sunday and I'm fourteen years old and I should be going to church today. But I'm too dirty to walk
Pens and pencilsI will never blow my brains onto paper with a pencil. -I'm afraid to erase things, scratch it away and tear down the lessons that were implanted there for a reason. I won't sleep without my heart against my wrist, pounding, remembering the way it felt to have kisses on old wounds,(the wounds that dissected my ribs, and slit open my heart and lungs)-I was never breathing.I was always drowning in a world of pain, hiding it all in the shoulder pack I've been carrying my burdens in for eight years.I want to believe in the things I used to,(I want to believe in angels, stars, and swimming in the ocean)-Ask me a question. Please, I want you to ask me something I can understand, something I can answer, and something that will make me feel a little worth something in your eyes.I'm not saying I don't feel important,(I feel tired, and following the same rhythms behind someone elses feet)
Brace yourself for her heartShe wears her face with eyes of ice cold blue in the sunlight and lips of peach too afraid to speak and tell you secrets hidden on her sleeve.I.She loves you. She won't tell you because her mother always warned her to be careful with what she said, and because she's afraid of emptiness. But you were the one to convince shuddered thoughts to stop controlling her and to give rain a chance not to burn her skin.Once she decided on headaches, risks, and time a hunger for forcing the monster that hides under her bed reached reality.II.She's terrible at not being obvious. There's a knife by the table and fingertips edge away because she doesn't want to hurt anyone. She can't promise she won't hurt you because she's afraid. And yet, you're what she wants.III.Okay, she's a liar. She will hurt you, there is no but of ifs. If anything she'll suggest that you walk away because even though she's young, she's gone through far too much to
SaturdaysShe writes and writes and writes about Saturday obsessions, about love that will never be and about things she wants to know but will fall before she gets her chance. Luck has never been her thing.There is always a sense of hope, but it never comes like in the fairytale.You see, she will never be a princessand it doesn't bother her as much as it used to because she knows she is broken.She know that she may as well be an orphan and that she will never achieve the dreams she wants.And it doesn't hurt.But she still writes, about daydreams she has that only cause emotions she finally gave into Saturday night.
Secret death by a loverI sat in my bedroom, music blaring, hands preoccupied with a pen and paper. Inspiration was something that settled in the pits of my heart by the day. But I never planned. If you left me alone I'd suffer in the demons I'd pinned in my mind so long ago. Forgetting is not something I like to do.My current time was two hours. Two hours of emotional stress, and captivating visions of later. I didn't want to worry about later, not today, not tomorrow, and not any time. My heart beat against the images. These were the ones I couldn't handle.-----In order they all came. Flashes of crimson blood and tears streaked down my mother face. It amazed me that even today being as vulnerable as a little girl could be, I survived with only secretive damage. My brother's hands (tiny, pink, un-touched hands) struggled against barbaric hands. Why would anyone want to harm c