"Come down to the hidden gardens,
Shed your worries like clothes,
Stop imitating realities that have died, that have grown mould like leftover food.
Push my buttons and test my limits, just don't speak his name."
You put your silver scissors to my hair, cutting of strands- a certain teen angst guiding your blade.
This meant something to her, for:
every strand that fell from my hair symbolised the memories of his hands on her waist, and how they were meant to flake away the minute the judge announced his sentence.
You cut my hair, you cut away the parts of me you didn't desire. You fiddled with my scalp, desperate to influence my memory and erase his face.
And I let you make me,
Because we're just fucking kids.
Just fucking kids,
Just fucking kids who needn't testify in court,
Just fucking kids who needn't slit their wrists,
Just fucking kids who needn't be cut, contorted by his body, bent by something that should've amended us.
YOU ARE READING
A Culmination Of Realities
PoetryAs we float through life, victimized by circumstance and stalked by rumours, we come to understand that false rumours have opposites: realities. These are the realities to which this book is dedicated. These realities share only truth, for some are...
