There is such stubborn longing for destruction,
Within the folds of a human heart that I cease to remember
craving something that is so incandescently tender.
After hollow years and unheard screams, I believe I have found that
I am a battle ground for someone else's war.
A lonely stretch of land drenched unforgivingly in the shards of
ocean glass heartbeats, ricocheting screams scratched under
frozen
tongues and the ink like finger prints of people I wish, had never
gotten close enough to touch me.
Each person walking away leaving me feeling as though I have
lost something.
Once, I bumped into a man who held unsewn stitches behind his
gaze from the countless times he wept silently,
cold and alone,
every bone being attacked by the desperation stretching it's
limbs out inside of him.
He fought a war constantly with his lesser self, that he began to
misinterpret the feeling of vulnerability for softness.
We all became so immersed in our own calamity that our fragments
began to glue themselves to the wrong puzzle pieces of our
being.
We are uncompleted mosaics of needs bound together with glue,
shattered from the inside out,
being left to the mercy of a beholder whose reckless essence erodes
all of that which he touches.
I can see his hands reaching towards me now,
yearning easily, with a hint of fractured hatred and pain towards
my shaking frame.
I can see destruction dangling from his cracking fingertips,
smoke cascading down his poisoned lips-
Once, I sketched the word Reliance boldly into my pale skin
to perform a sense of control, as the bombs exploded mockingly
between the rungs of these ribs.
And through the smoke I saw them staring,
shocked and disturbed by the gunpowder girl with the suicide
pack with her own conscience,
every sadness stained into her furrowed brow above those crystal
eyes, the ones that never stopped caring.
Even after everyone walked away.
I am stranded in a ship close to sinking,
Well practised ores beating steadily against the current,
scarred arms stretched out eagerly,
each omniscient demon screeching;
like tires against the asphalt-
Dragging me down to a sea floor I shamelessly know
all too well.
Why is there this emphasized seamless atmosphere of something-
awful-
being left dangerously unfinished?
Sometimes I pretend that someone was there for me-
with me, during all of my earthquakes, just to pretend that this
world isn't cruel enough to watch me
fracture
alone.
I am beginning to wonder, how much self-respect do I have left to lose?
YOU ARE READING
Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.
Poesia"I hope it gives you the same satisfaction as finishing a really good book, Or kissing someone, and not walk away feeling like they have taken something from you."
