blue's poetry

white rabbit,

Spare me the details of

How it felt when you saw

The carnage.

When you close your eyes,

Doe,

Can you still see the way the river

Lapped at your feet with

Crimson tongues?

Or can you not pry those

Desperate memories

From your blood stained nails,

Sly fox?

i’ve lost track how many pieces i’ve found and glued back into my heart now, what pieces it’s still missing, or how many cuts and puncture wounds i incurred when he kept punching his feelings into the glass, shattering another ventricle as i was holding it. i’ve just wiped up the blood, ran it under cold water, bandaged it up and moved on.

but i like my hands uncut. that’s why the second time is not so easy.

because see, i’ve realized that friends don’t ignore you when you show them glimpses of your soul and throw false genuinity and fake deepness (that story again?) in exchange. friends spend true time with you and like to dip their hands into your stories, your worries, your obsessions, and your creations because their motives aren’t to worship the skin that you’re currently residing in. they actually enjoy speaking to you at length when they’re sober, and have more substance to their conversations than flirtation, flirtation, and fliration.

see, i’ve realized that you’re not a friend at all and god i wish i had realized it sooner, that i had gotten through my thick head that you only want to impress upon the curves in my hips instead of any true memories or feelings on my heart that would last longer than, what, 15 minutes?

sure, worship my body. but god strike me down if i ever forget this, and start running to you to smooth down my rough edges with sex.

i can hear your whispers in my ear

this is what you want                  your fingers on my jaw this is where you belong             you place me against the wall we were never meant to part      you part my lips we were always meant to be      you part my legs just like this                                 you part my heart

and in the kiss i remember why you’re so seductive, why i craved your figure and your taste so badly. those nights you bruised me, threw insults until i was ready to give up on everything you helped me pick up the pieces too and held me when no one else would.

no, no but this time i don’t want it i don’t want you, i don’t want this again, i won’t allow you inside of me again i don’t want your words or your fingers or your lips

i’ve lost track how many pieces i’ve found and glued back into my heart now, what pieces it’s still missing, or how many cuts and puncture wounds i incurred when he kept punching his feelings into the glass, shattering another ventricle as i was holding it. i’ve just wiped up the blood, ran it under cold water, bandaged it up and moved on.

but i like my hands uncut. that’s why the second time is not so easy.

either way

when i was younger, i felt light, uninhibited in every way. then i began to offer my hands to my mother, then my father, and my sister and i always held hands and so i began to hold things.

i just kept putting things in my hands, holding tight onto grapefruits, lemons, limes, dirty laundry, dirty bed sheets, dirty secrets, heavy baggage and heavy baggage and heavy baggage and heavy baggage so much baggage.

and now i’m trying to understand why my hands must be hurting, why they’re dripping in sour memories, why it all became too heavy. i think i finally put it all down.

no wonder my hands hurt. no wonder my hands hurt no wonder my hands hurt.

[hear me out]

pills keep you above the water, like a life ring.

life rings can save you from drowning, and from going under again

but they cannot make you enjoy the sun at the surface.