"Bruises split her lips, rather than smiles. Her heart becomes caged within four walls, relentlessly pounded by splintered knuckles in a drunk stupor. Nothing seems to feel right, not the sun, not the rain, not even the skin she sleeps in each night. Tossing and turning in threadbare sheets, only to shift in her skin. Waking up with bags sagging under her eyes and marks stretching her thighs. Nowhere seems to be fit to belong. Instead of half full, the liquor bottle is empty, and toiling clouds overcome the dim hope the moon and stars cast on the walls. Somehow, she has lost herself, lost who she is. She isn't quite sure how to say her name, as the only thing that can roll off her tongue anymore is another boy's teeth. Whatever she's called, it must be in the thesaurus, right next to "tired". Nights no longer suit her suites, but boys still rumble quietly in sock-clad feet, chasing in p u r s u i t of what many call a l o s t cause. No longer speaks, and what a raw throat she must have, the way people tighten their hold around their purses and children around her, lest she steals their valuables, or their children. No good comes to those who don't ask for help. She is a soul from the land of the forgotten, come back only to see the grandiose ruins of her timely departure."
-Day of the Deadened (synonymous-with-lo/ust)
(c.d.)
YOU ARE READING
Craving Love
Poetry→ it's been occurring to me, that you can't burn the devil. ← ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ *Please don't take any of my work. All poems belong to me, unless stated otherwise. :)*
