A/n: This is actually my Creative Writing assignment, but I liked it so much that I wanted to upload it. The prompt was Violence Awareness. Let me know what you think!!!
The Black Blanket That Covers Us All
He comes like a thief in the night—
swift as a draft, coiling linen curtains.
He dodges the creaking stair
and blocks the ray of light
from the crack in the door.
His shadow looms,
the darkness marring your unblemished face.
Be careful what he takes from you…
he has already taken enough.
Her mirror tells deceit,
and her eyes are accomplices
to the distortion of her skin.
The unfed monster roars
before two digits
are crammed down her moist esophagus.
She retches on self deprecation
and supposed beauty;
she has lost her sight.
But you sleep on, unaware.
Still happy.
The corner of your lips
tugged up by Bliss.
Is your dream a bright one, the glow reaching your heart?
Will the radiance permeate his darkness,
when your eyes finally stir?
Exploding from your retinas
like two floodlights in a field…
Crash! Hands grab his body, slamming him into lockers.
He wants to be touched by another human being,
but not like this.
Words.
Rotten, sickening words leave the assailants’ mouths,
slashing through his ear canals.
“Fag.”
Over and over the words bash his ears, his heart,
until he cannot hear any longer.
She comes like a joker in the night,
her laughter—a ferocious, mangy disease—you cannot hear,
no matter how hard you strain.
But the cackling wakes you,
drags you from dreams of flowering fields.
Dreams of music, dancing.
Warm hugs.
She drags you into the frozen despondency
your world has become.
A fine white line lies before him.
Ruler-straight snow
that refuses to melt.
Ash to rid his nostrils
of the putrid pong
stale alcohol and vomit create.
A high to remedy the neglect,
while burning, numbing, bleeding away all else.
And everything smells the same.
Thunder is your heart, heartbeat.
Does she find it funny?
The raw terror
emanating from your pores.
Her perverted amusement in your pain perplexes you.
What comes to her,
wrapped in foil, pompous bow,
on her front porch,
from your suffering?
Don’t touch her.
Not even a brush in passing.
Lest the memories assault her:
Unwelcomed probing in sacred places.
Blue-marbled skin like flowers blooming in the spring.
But what kind of flowers could spawn
from such an act?
A penetrative, wicked act.
A breaking act.
And all you want to do,
all you can do—is scream,
but the clammy fear gags you,
thrusts down upon you,
reducing you to insignificance.
You are left behind.
Forgotten by your parents,
your friends, the stuffed animal in the corner.
Alone with your demons.
There he lies,
left behind a rosebush and a park bench.
His body mutilated, grinded like hamburger.
The product of fists and rings. Knives and bats.
A jump gone wrong.
The taste of iron is all that remains
as searing, red fluid, pools between his teeth.
The last flavor to reach his consciousness,
and the one that will always linger.
They will come like a joker and a thief in the night.
To try and steal away your petals,
gripping them in soot,
crushing pastel delicacy.
And when you are cold
and alone,
they will conceal you in black blankets,
and fade you away.
Will you let them?
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryPoems I have written from years ago to now. For any of you looking for a love poem, you most likely will not find one here (unless I write one in the distant future because for some reason my brain short-circuited and thought I it would be a good id...
