I wonder if my boy bleeds purple
or gray
because when he's under fire,
his marble eyes melt into his skin
blue into its kin
his hands made of seven sins
sometimes I watch how his lips move
from the corner of my eyes
dimples practically holes in his face,
much like the ones in earth for flower beds
I've been told that I can do better
I've been told that I can come closer to summer
but when my boy stares at me
seemingly
(are they hallucinations? can I trick myself into thinking
that I can be loved?)
I lose all resolve
better boys be damned
-
hey y'all. I think this is going to be the last part before the grand finale. I can't stretch this book out when I have too many different ideas jumbling about in my head.
sorry for the general inactivity. I'm busy with music and math and science and physics, and I write at like 12am because I can't find any more time. my motivation's also fucking garbage lol, I lost that shit sometime in May last year.
funny how the author's note is the same size as the poem itself.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
