Written between 2013 and 2015 (and lightly edited recently)
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
I thought I knew
what real pain felt like
until I saw you look at her
the way I look at you.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
"Still?" They asked.
"Of course not!" I lied.
The question was one I asked myself daily. Still? Why do you continue painting the shades of his lips and freckled skin? Why do you persist in hoping he will stumble into your gallery and lay eyes on the blotted colours that embody him, the titles that reference him. Why do you still pine for a lover of traditional art when you are the epitome of an abstract mess.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
And I am a fool,
for expecting the dead butterflies
in your stomach
to start fluttering again.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
You said your kisses were toxic and I begged you to give me a last one or two or three because I couldn't resist the taste of a love that once was.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
You left,
claiming you didn't want to hurt me.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
I gazed up at the moon and wondered
if your night sky looked as blurry as mine.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
You are only human, but you don't accept the fact that you are.
(somehow this line from my old therapist has stuck with me for years)
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
I never liked smoking
until I saw you
wrap your lips
around a cigarette
inhaling toxic chemicals
like oxygen
smiling at me
as if you weren't
ruining your lungs
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
You can't hide anymore.
It's too late, I see you.
(a text that took my breath away)
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Wrap your arms around my tired bones,
show me what home is supposed to feel like.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
You asked if I loved you
and I said I wrote about you.
Burning muse,
you can never die.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
I'm afraid
of my feelings
and internal hate.
Of the things that hide in the dark.
Of the things that make my eyes spark.
Everything that makes me lie.
Everything that makes me cry.
I'm afraid that one day
All these things will disappear
and take me with them.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
It's like reading a book,
finishing it and knowing
you'll never pick it up again.
It might have been
a waste of money,
but at least now
you're aware that it is.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PuisiMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
