My dull irises refuse
To ignore
The lack of cliche
Comedic romances
Or the intoxicating scent
Of nail pigment chemicals
Not to mention
A lack of scattered
Itchy feathers
The aftermath of
A battle waged
With worn down
Pillows
And the irony of how
The plush 'comforter' lay
Out of peripheral vision
But limbs still
Curl under the silk sheets
Eyelashes dropping in the place
Of my own
While I lie on the cold
Back breaking tile
Eye lids pried open
Gawking at the
Dusty limbs of
My ceiling fan
It's so common now
It's like they live here
Every night
Until every lilac sunrise
My home is now theirs
My mattress they claim
And they never depart
If only they were actual friends
Acquaintances even
And not the fairytale ridden monsters
Behind my bed skirt
It's an infinite sleepover
Lacking all the plain cliches
Simply because it's
Not with comrades
But with my own demons
——
A/N: Weird freeverse. I hope it makes sense. Also, I'll probably end this 'book' at 100 parts (so in like 11 parts I believe) and start a new poetry book on here, because yeah. I don't have much reason but I want to. I don't know lol. :)
