the nostalgia is a comfort as much as a disease.
i bite my tongue, i bite my lips, i bite my nails.
i am sharp with words and myself.
i am at my best when i am docile,
i am my best when i lie picturesque,
posed for you.
my lips are covered in dust from words i don't speak,
my throat is beginning to grow sticky with cobwebs,
it is a part i don't dare open— a cave i keep shut.
i'll bite my tongue, i'll bite my lips, and i'll bite my nails.
you pry me open like a piece of meat,
butchers knife held at the ready.
this is a meat shop, and i am the prey—
i lost this fight long ago, and here i lie at your mercy.
"silence is a virtue."
virtue is supposed to be a moral excellence,
i feel not an ounce of superiority.
but i will.
i crave it,
i ache for it,
i long, and i long, and i long.
and so
i bite my tongue, i bite my lips, i bite my nails,
and i speak no evil.
as well as no good.
YOU ARE READING
fascinatingly fatal
Poetryi will squeeze my eyes so tight i won't see your evil, i will cover my ears and i will not hear your evil, and i will sew my mouth shut and you will never hear my evil again.
