To Collocate The Stars

seven

Atychiphobia: A Pastiche

Every time a tear slips from my cheeks, 

my heart

stops. 

Barring that logic in mind, I'm surprised I'm not dead yet.

It's not until I've cried out every drop of moisture from 

my aching body 

that my skin becomes shriveled up and my bones become as thin as sewing needles. 

And you'll cry, 

I know it because I've done it too, 

sat in my room and listened to the clock tick and my heart thump and brain rattle, 

until I'm back in that place, 

withered and weak, 

delicate 

as a stack of plates that if 

dropped 

would shatter all over floor giving you just another reason to yell at me, 

curse me out, 

shut 

me 

out. 

Don't get me wrong, I still love you, 

but I may be blonde and I may be young, 

I may not even know my rights from lefts, 

but I'm smart enough to know my rights from wrongs. 

So 

you've had your fun and I've played your games, 

but now it's my turn to say something that may actually matter.  

~~~

a/n. 

so that thing that I mentioned last time, it was called "updating"...YEAH, I STILL DONT KNOW HOW TO DO THAT RIGHT. anyways...this poem is a little different (again) because it's written about someone entirely different than the last ones. 

            -M.W.

(Inspired by the style of the video above, Savanna Brown's Loving Like An Existentialist)