unfinished poem
I always loved it when people told me I was sweet
Like nice girl
Like if you’ve had a bad day I’ll feed you a toothy sugar coated smile
Even If I don’t know you kind of way
Like laughter
Radiating in volts from my arms
Like platters
Serving sun-gilded moments upon my tongue
Like love
But I entombed a secret into the storm watered alleys of my veins
And the sweetness expires and spoils the rivers from these written incisions
I find the truth splattered from my lungs as I say
I am a murderer
Nothing else
No false dream of me you’ve settled into the creviced nooks of your mind is more honest than this
Don’t mold cloud shrouded pretentions by my demeanor
This is how the truest murders look
Like someone who’s loved
Like someone who didn’t lose it but buried it with a headstone reading
Another one bites the dust
It began at age fourteen
He was a willing victim baiting my curiosity for attention
Laying his sacrificed flesh out every night on my doorstep
With a tribe of thirsty quivers groveling towards my lips
Injecting his nervous racing pulse through telephone wires
He always agreed with everything I said
And as I spoke I could hear the ready-made head nods
And the hesitated I love yous backed into the scratching pipes of his voice box
Bursting with some complacency I did not need but
Threw away and pretended to keep
And after counting down the days in one month
The time I felt I needed to write the label of a real relationship
Into the finger painted scriptures of my youth
I took the bones that were left from the carved expenses of his tolled body
And with the second’s length of a sentence shattered them
Like glass shards that I can still see him feed his new girlfriend
Poisoning her like the slow piercing freedom aspired meals cooked by a slave
Then age sixteen
He was a crumpled canvas in a broken frame
Found him in some dumpster I ran into while
Trying to escape the looming hands of time
It was the way he forced himself into every swerving track of my path
I could not escape him, some crushable roadblock I took with me instead
I dirtied my hands with the abysmal hatred for his mother
And wing-spanned wishes to meet his father
I brushed some form of hope over his erasure marks
Molded some abstract strokes of beauty onto the dejection of his skin
And watched him attempt to hang himself proudly on the calcified walls of my heart
He began to resent me for it
The way the artist received the praise but never learned to showcase the masterpiece
And so in frustrated attempts to hold some safe case inside my dreams
He muddied and frayed the edges of his character until he wasn’t worth anything anymore
Just a crumpled canvas in a broken frame
So I ripped him
Tore every strand until it was left blowing in the wind like a question
Dripping pigments of no color,
Just desperation bruised by the darkness of him being really fucking crazy
Whatever straining notes left in the buzzing of his heart
Still calls me every week to know if I loved him at all
And then there was him
That romance so pushed so lightly into my heart
I could barely hear it before it encompassed me like a warm bath
