She waits for whatever comes first- sleep or death,
you'll tell her not to be selfish and nonsensical
but isn't that what has been done?
consequences
consequences
consequences
she knows them very well now, she slept oh no
she daydreamed of sleeping but curses are as such- not easy
shame and shame and shame and she's ashamed,
place a paper bag with holes for eyes and she'll live in there for eternity
or perhaps give her a paper bag and she shall revoke last night's dinner-
she couldn't eat anyway,her mouth like cardboard and tears and impending doom
and tears and tears and tears; not hers but
how that look pierced her heart- this, another kind of damnation
self inflicted, necessary, and wedged somewhere between her ribs and heart
where breaths jagged and raw depart
end this misery she prayed last night
unfamiliar prayer, godless prayer to some heaven
she didn't believe in but that's what fuck ups do to you
you pray and pray and pray
and kneel and kneel and kneel
and hope that someone up there grants you mercy.
~
9.9.16
YOU ARE READING
Tasting Hearts
PoetryPoetic gibberish from a teenage logophile where a girl writes what her fingers tell her to on the skeleton of rhyme, rhythm and reason.
