forks scratching plates
bodies rolling on a creaky bed
all the sounds that i hate
can't scream louder than you
heavy footsteps
loud sobbing
the hard slam of your bedroom door
fragments of your filthy soul
shattered on our wooden floor
the reason I don't believe in god
he's never had the nerve
to show his face
in my broken home
to which catholic school
is my only escape.
try writing this on a page,
about a god that won't save
this broken child
from
a filthy cage.
inflicting pain is their mezzo forte.
the destruction they share,
this trinity
it makes me sick.
the pain lives in me.
I'm not even a poet,
I'm broken at the seams.
the seamstress that pieced me together,
with broken glass and a hammer
was paid off by demons
they watch me bleed—
not blood and water
real deities bleed iron and glass.
broken poets come in last,
expect this one to pay attention
in class?
she can't even bear
to see herself in jane eyre,
demons ripping
at her hair.
they're envious
somehow
of this
yet the only pretty thing she has is senseless;
her ugly forest eyes see them
wreck things and wreak havoc.
maybe you can't see
these images.
they're graphic.
your mind may be too pg
to catch the things I see.
messy things:
broken soul fragments,
poems that almost rhyme–
but that would be too exhibitionist
I don't write so that
you can romanticize my shit.
I don't even wish that you could understand it.
I'd rather you not,
I'd rather you glance over at me and envy my eyes.
they're tiger stripes,
and they mark me.
I'd rather you not know the significance behind
blank stares to a fake screen.
I can't see the world in color.
I speak in shades of pain.
I'm a monster too,
I'm put here to inflict
there's nothing I can do except wait for some bitch to try to conquer it.
I watch pretty things with ugly eyes,
twist lies around someone else's tongue
I see pain,
everywhere.
these dumb people don't suspect me,
maybe too caught up
in their holy trinity.
I don't give a shit,
life beats me senseless
every day that I'm away from it.
my ugly forest eyes
can't bear to watch the news
the stuff you see on screen
they're fake demons,
nothing like the real thing.
if you can't handle the fake shit that pretends to touch your life,
just wait until they're screaming at you
tearing at your throat with a knife.
all the sounds that I hate
circle back to one place.
two years until I'm gone,
somewhere demons can't chase.
when I graduate
I'll have that seamstress's head on a plate.
meditate on that,
I'll tell you once again that your demons ain't shit.
