this is a long one ((:
i am made up of these things:
one brain, suffocated in ropes that smell of money and petroleum, tied by society as if my generation is the answer to all the problems life throws at us
one heart, beat beat beat thud thud thud crack crack crack under the weight of my inner demons
two lungs, helping me to breathe ( though i don't want to ) yet they feel tainted, perhaps by the poisonous words he likes to call me after he's drunk himself out of depression
skin stomach liver intestines pancreas and anything else in between, worn down by years of sticking by his side even though i will be better off without him
bones, ivory and not broken yet, not quite
and blood that's so, so cold
i am made up of these things when he comes back home and he stinks of alcohol and impatience and perfume that i will never wear because it makes me feel useless;
and he gives me the look that means he's not satisfied yet
and i melt onto the floor with my bravery and unsaid words of self worth flowing from my eyes in the shape of teardrops
then, one day, afterwards when i try to scrub all the sins off my body i stare into the mirror
my eyes are dull; my lips are chapped and my skin is raw from his fingers trying to scoop me out as if i am a melon; taking my substance out and throwing it away just to get at the sweetness that lies in the feminine grooves of my body
but never in my life have i ever felt more like myself.
because this was the day i met you.
you came up to me with a smile like honey
and i swear i saw the sunlight caught in your corneas
yet still, i wilted like a flower, because what if you were like him?
and even though there were several other places to go, several other people who were more beautiful than i
even though i told you that i was a lost cause with my gaze
you sat down next to me and asked me what my favourite colour was
i looked you dead in the eye, and i simply said
the colour of your eyes.
and when you told me rather quizzically that your eyes were just plain old brown
i replied that perhaps that was what made them special
because that shade of brown held far more warmth, kindness, love
than anything else i had ever seen
and ever since then, ever since that day
brown has been my favourite colour
i even had begun to like my hair just because it reminded me of you
i saw you every day, and i was just waiting until you realised that i was a ghost inside a broken machine
but no, you talked to me like i meant something
something he had never done and he never would do
and then one night, when the stars surrounded us and the moon hid in your smile, you took my face in your hands and you kissed me.
just simply kissed me, as if i was an empty canvas just waiting to be painted with the pastel hues of your love
and i melted again, but in a different way.
of course, he found out. he always did.
he saw the present you left for me on the satiny skin of my neck
and he opened his mouth to call me names that cut me up and hung me in the sky to be laughed at by the world
but this time i didn't let him
from my lips came the fiery storm of things i was too afraid to say
you treated me like shit
you cheat, lie, rob me of my soul
and i am done pretending that i do not despise you
and even though doing that brought fresh, raw tears to my face and made me run away like a coward
i ran straight into your arms.
now i am made up of these things:
one brain, still trapped in the cage of society but no longer tied down, instead flying on the sensation of your lips on mine
one heart, beat beat beat thud thud thud burst burst burst from the happiness that only you could bring me
two lungs, helping me to breathe ( and i want to forever ) and inside them bloom all the flowers of pretty poems you whispered in my ears
skin stomach liver intestines pancreas and anything else in between, fresh and new and galactic because when i am with you i am a child of the moon and the lover of the stars that dust your face
bones, ivory and no longer worn down by his comments about me that burn like acid
and blood that's so, so warm
i still see him around sometimes,
and she stares at me with a hollow, stricken face
so i call out to her that he's not worth it
and i hope she listens
because now i know that what we had wasn't love
and you helped me see that
and for that,
i thank you.
this wasn't great )): i gotta fix my poetry
YOU ARE READING
the art of falling
Poetrypaint me as deep and as blue as the sea and maybe i will find the strength to drown myself