Should I?
Should I describe you screaming at me at half past midnight at the top of your lungs as fireworks, exploding through the night? The residue falling down on me like corroding acid; burning my mind, my heart, my soul.
Should I describe your demanding fingers as a tattooist's needles against my skin, imprinting patterns on my innocence; bleeding ink into my veins - filthy poison? Marking me inside out, so that another would never want me.
Should I describe the bruises you leave on my thighs as flowers blooming from underneath my epidermis, unfurling onto the tenderness of flesh? Taking root in my insides and draining me from every bit of strength I have left.
Should I describe the falling blood against white tile, as poppies poking out from snow? Drying with time turning from scarlet to brown to black; the color of my soul after your fireworks burned my insides and your tattoos stained my heart walls and your flowers soaked up all the fight I had in me.
Should I describe what you do to me as the most beautiful things I know, and see if they sound as beautiful as you try to make them?
― (When tragedy meets beauty, but fails to look pretty), S.M.
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Aphasia
Poetryaphasia; /əˈfeɪzɪə/ noun. inability (or impaired inability) to understand or produce speech, or express thoughts verbally. poetry book with writings that i can't put into words / rants / personal opinions on matters that matter to me / things people...
