dissonantLaselis
My memory fades,
retreats,
but I still see her.
She comes to me in portraits
washed in on the roaring waves,
dusty autumn hues coating faded ink.
She was the lover
who pressed words into my temple
until they were raw,
bleeding.
Who sucked in feelings
as drags on a cheap cigarette
until they blackened her lungs.
Who tasted words on the tip of her tongue
bitter, relaxed,
unfeeling.
My memory retreats,
yet she comes to me
in poems:
brief as kisses,
and lonesome as the night.
She sat in the mother oak in her parent’s backyard and thought of every lover she ever had. Ones taller and shorter. Ones with soft hands and ones with rough fingers who touched her softly. Ones she broke and ones that left her broken. She thought of all of the gods she had prayed to and thought of all those she did not. She thought of songs that filled her head, of words etched on her bedroom walls that still made her choke. Records she played until they were ragged and worn through.
Smoke filled the air as she exhaled, the cigarette between her lips a burning reminder of all of the strangers she will never meet. All of the boys whose hearts she will not break. All of the songs she will not hear. All of those gods she will not see.
People are not snow, nor rain, nor autumn leaves falling from oak trees. They do not look beautiful when they fall.
She never looked Nice or Well-to-do. She looked like Art; she wasn’t supposed to look Nice. She looked Worldly, the universe in the palm of her hand and stardust dancing in her eyes at even the faintest whisper of I love you.
I had a feeling once that she could keep my secrets. Months passed. Her eyes were opened to the love of thousands, her lungs began to breathe the same air as the planets.
I awoke one morning and she was gone, becoming so full of the universe that she had moved on. She took a bit of myself with her when she packed her broken suitcase. I feel her holding me close to this day.
She never looked Nice or Well-to-do. She was too full of the world to look Nice. She was truly a piece of Art.
The spikes lining the collar of her leather jacket match perfectly with those in her personality: cold, sharp, and unforgiving. She is a fever, an animal, dangerous and on the prowl. I let myself fall victim, pinned down by the dark spines of her stilettos. My mind blurs as her lips drag along mine and I feel that this is wrong. She is not Mine.
The roses in her ears betray innocence she no longer carries in her thorny heart. My adrenaline spikes as I move toward her, too angry to submit, but too scared to turn my head astray.
Teenage fingers brush against the fabric of the Universe; their Universe. It is pure as milk, soft as the skin of a newborn. It is perfection, "every parent's dream". Digits clutch the silken sheet, unaware of the world outside the shelter of Mother's arms.
Teenage fingers destroy the fabric of the Universe; their Universe. Underneath lie the dust of the ancients, the cries of rebellion and angst. The duties of adulthood. Every star in the night sky flashing bright into the unknown. A single figure in the distance, tentatively labelled "consciousness". In their struggle, they walk forward.
Teenage fingers brush against the fabric of the Future; their Future. It is cold and uncertain. And they surrender.
dials and switches and knobs. neurons flashing at lightning speed. calculators strewn in a line, graphs tucked neatly in the pocket of his new corduroys. he would make it. he was analytical, but oh boy, he was yours, and that's all that mattered in the end.
i've avoided it like the plague. everyone else around me asks in hushed whispers, but i stay away. i do not want to speak her name on my flushed lips. i do not want to picture her smile in my mind. it is far too painful to think about living in a world where my mother is not at my side. at seventeen i feel as though i now need her the most, and she is not with me any longer. i've avoided it like the plague, and still they talk. still they talk.
There he was, the fallen angel. He sits in the courtroom, palms sweaty and mind stirring. He sees his false prophet hovering somewhere in the space between his consciousness and a pseudo-reality, wings a glistening shade of white. The blood that stained that eggshell complexion told no lies; he was truly alone in a Godless world.
Juveniles are weak. They are full of energy and life, bathing in the cosmos with every breath they take. They are precious. They are weak. They fall. The rest of us just have to believe that someday they will learn to brush themselves off and allow the taste of adulthood to fill their mouths.
Time. A strange concept; Ticking faster when there is joy, slowing to molasses as the bad infects our lives. It spirals into nothingness, meaninglessness, and the question is raised: Will I have enough?
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