せかい。

十

11:26AM ; UNTITLED

一

SHE HAS TAUGHT ME
to seal my lips with gold,

to write my words in poetry
before they fall
upon my tongue;

she has taught me
to look towards the skies
as they will be my only
source of light when
she grows a palace upon my skin,
a fortress that i let enter
my bloodstream and
harden my skin.

he has taught me
to paint velvet over
the stone archways
stretching along my collarbones;

he has taught me
to please the crowds
wandering over the doorsteps
in hope that they will embrace
the skeleton in my walls
because he refuses to go near
a haunted heart

i learned
to keep my lungs soft,
so that i may find air
in this condemned body

i learned
to keep my mind sharp,
so that i may prod around
answers inked along ivy laden bricks and questions
helplessly tugging at the locks

i've learned
to keep travellers
at arm's length to warm my
hollow windows and to fake
pretences of happiness

i've discovered
how words can hurt them,
cause a ripping agony that
blows them away on the wind,

and i've learned
how to use it
and use it well

but i don't know,
if it'll hurt dismantling these walls and i'm worried that it won't be worth it at all