running away from a hellish home.
we skip the introduction
and forget the punctuation(?)
we are a run-on sentence
we are improper
copy & paste—
we are each other’s
there are teeth marks
in our nyctophobic shadows,
when we are alone
it’s like we’re being buried alive—
dirt getting in our eyes,
everything deflating into past tense.
the feelings we once had
now seem like our
long lost alter egos,
only sleep can make us whole.
i don’t know why you’re afraid
to turn out the lights or look
under the bed—
we’ve been the monsters all along.
everything is a metaphor is a self portrait is an example of loneliness is a crying dog is that pang of guilt when you know you’ve wronged is your mother’s voice in the back of your head is the milk you forgot at the supermarket is a black cup of coffee is an artist at work is a smouldering cigarette is death personified is a man in a black gown is a father is a series of one-sided conversations held in your head is an barren garden bed is an empty glass is a long night alone is a cold bed of regrets is the loss of everything that could have been is another reminder of you is us is me is
so you love a girl with dirt in her mouth. (jl)
She’s made up of sharp edges; she’s been grinding her bones together to turn herself into shrapnel. She won’t be hurt again; she is made of locked doors and broken keyholes. The nighttime throws her body from present to past, and her nightmares are made up of strange hands and bloody teeth.
She’s made up of soft curves; she’s hiding them beneath her bones. You know there’s a story under there; you know there’s a way to peel her open. But she rolls away, and she knows it hurts your heart but she doesn’t know how to be soft, she only knows how to hide.
She is unaccustomed to hands that are kind, and she doesn’t understand the language you speak. You should know that the cracks in her skin are difficult to fill; and that she has to fill them on her own. Her mouth hasn’t learned how to speak like her heart, and so she writes until her fingers are bent and crooked. She is bursting from holding the sun in her chest and your name on her tongue; but she hasn’t learned how to speak soft words yet.
She will flinch often, and she won’t talk much about why. She can give you facts, but she can’t talk about details and emotions; she can’t use the word rape without spitting it out; without feeling sick. She will be surprised when you listen to her, and even more surprised that you’re more than happy to just run your fingers through her hair. She’ll be unable to express her gratitude, but maybe you’ll notice the way she relaxes her shoulder, and buries her face in your neck.
You don’t know this, but she laughs louder since she met you. She’s writing this and listening to that song you played for her; she’s writing everything for you.
She is difficult, and messy; she’s learning and she’s growing. She is not easy to love, and she knows it; but you do love her, and she knows it. She says it back in one thousand ways, if you listen close enough.