egustaf
Bleak
Dark
Soft
Hard
Droplets pelting my face
As I walk throw the rainy road
Eyes Open
Hands up
Catching moments into pools
Of Sadness
Hot
Cool
C-c-cushion my heat
In a vat of ice
Steaming my freedom
Freeing me of your toxin
Poison curable by decision
Not by retaliation
Sh-sharing what I know
F-f-f-unction the way I am
Hot
Cool
Steam my worries away
Light in the darkness
A match snuffed out
With fingers shaking with rage
Of horrors not meant for one
So young, heart half filled with optimism
The fingers strike out
Grabbing the shoulder of
The intruder of the heart
Blood splashing in pools
Of Dark Pavements
Hands gripping
Heart tearing
Love unveiled in its rawest form
Hate for the unloved
For the broken
Who have found no one love
But suck all warmth from others
Taste the wrath of My sting
May it burn like a cut
Fester like a spoiled animal
Rotting the garbage of your innards
Taste My Sting
I feel like one of a herd. Here we are, dozens of thin, fit heifers covered with foundation, and blush -to make us look as healthy and well groomed as possible- ready for slaughter. Our big blond extensions bob in unison as we smile and nod at each other, our faces just as false as our lashes. The lights go up and we waddle on stage like a trained circus act. Glittering soldiers following our orders. We glimmer and shine, our bodies valued more than the mind that got us here in the first place. We want to change the world and stop abuse, but we are abused ourselves.
When I get ready in the morning, I don't tend to look outside my window before I leave. The blinds block out the light, keeping my room nice and cool, just how I like it. Plus, I'm too lazy to just go to the window and peek out. So when I step outside, I begin to notice that the weather is a bit warmer than I expected. Everyone I see in passing is wearing a skirt or a pair of shorts, and I look like a dumb ass in my scarf and winter coat. It feels like a whopping 90 degrees, but that's probably because I'm wearing my red American Eagle sweat shirt and and a nice pair of dark-wash skinny jeans underneath my winter apparel. "Well", I think to myself, "I'm going to be late for class if I go back and change", so I grow a pair and suffer the heat. The people I pass give me the "Doesn't she know it's a beautiful day and not the Ice Age?" look, so I shoot them a glare that says "I'm covering up because I'm way too sexy for mere mortal eyes". Yeah, that'll teach them. So I'm strutting my stuff and sweating like a hog, no big deal. I'm pretty sure the sun has become a torch, and it is slowly melting me into a puddle of pale American goo, but hey, it beats backing down and conforming to the heat like those other sissy boys and girls. Right..?
She looks at me and smiles. Her eyes glint, and her dimples show. I can see the weary look of stress fade from her face as she laughs and laughs. I, the jokester, laugh with her. My worries and anxieties float away on a breeze of laughter. Our smiles match: two half moons enveloped my small, pale faces. The joke is over, but our eyes still water, and our lips are still stretched. We know the world is dark. I, in fact, have known this for far too long, given my young age. But when I look at her, it's like I'm on a stage, waving to the crowds below me as the hot lights rise on center stage. Her smile is like a spotlight, a faint, but solid glow on the empty stage, filling me with light. She is the torch I hold in a dark cave, my light house on an open sea, and a glimmering firefly I clutch in my hand. She is in every breath I sing, and in my quiet moments. I want to capture her in a bottle, and keep her light close to my eyes, so that I may never be left alone in the dark. I look at her and see a friend, a sister, and my hope.
The chalk is in my hands. I feel the grittiness under my fingers as I squeak my way along the chalkboard. A hand appears, then an eye, now a finely pointed shoe. I look down at my chalky hands and smile as I clap them to clear the dust. A blue and white cloud bursts from my fingers, my eyes capturing the pastel chalk debris dancing in the air. A step backwards widens my vision. Two girls holding hands, their chalky teeth gleaming. Although we have parted hearts, I can still see us in my imagination. Two little pastel girls. Careless. Young.
Your face is unlike it. No pattern has formed it. I can see your smile, lopsided and yet more perfect than any mold. The shape of your face is like a bruised orange. Sweet and tangy, and still...perfect.
It happens again. I go back to you and it's like I'm stuck in my own entrapment. I'm on a railroad that has no end. It circles around its self in an infinity of doubt. I feel the pattern of the tracks under my feet, bumping, bumping, bumping my lonely cart along it. It is the same day after day, and I feel like you know this is happening. Your smile contains the piano keys that I play unconsciously, the same melody beating again and again against your heart, flooding into mine. It's a pattern of need and want. Of lust and guilt. And I can't stop. Your hands shape mine into cookie cutter hearts, shaping my thoughts toward you, and no matter how I fight I can feel the pattern of my OWN hands ri--ri--ripping into my own heart. I shouldn't be here. I should have control of my own heart. But with each buh-bump, buh-bump...I can only hear your name.
You set me again in this pattern. You give me a word and I write you a sonnet. Well, that's fair I guess. I can create many things from one word, but why must it be the same one each time? Can it be 'tiger' or 'lily pad'?
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