solanaceaedrop d(r)ead(,)gorgeouswith a blood-stainedcherry on top;trace my veins with your lipsand inhale the silence of ourmakeshift grey worldmaybe we can watch andsee if the moon would fall, danglinglike lanterns hung from rooftops(maybe we can watch as thesea breathes in tandem with the moon,and we can lay our heads to rest with the thoughtthat there will always, always be a tomorrowand although there will not always be an 'us'there will always be a dawn to wake up toand a dusk to fall asleep in.)
do you believe in the lies we eat?i think the roles of ink and blood are reversed:i write in blood (my words are my lifeline)and my flesh is sewn from dead-black ink, coursing through my corrodedveins like venom
there is steel underneath these layers of fleshpeople say hearing is the last of thefive senses to go.if that is the case,breathe by my side when i die.
timid loveshe wore the dawn like swangrace;it suited her, but she hid from it, fearing rejection.
before we goi keep a collection of the ash that came from my mouthin a box beneath my bedand sometimes i take it out,pass my hand through the soft charcoal flakesyou do not know much about me, after alli sit there and i think thatand i smile because i am a mystery andkeeping it that way makes me happy inside --locking away the burned remains of somethingi temporarily held deargives me a feeling ofinvincibility,as odd as that sounds. the onlythings i do not (cannot) collectare my very own tearsbecause i do not have the timenor patience to sit the hours with a jar in mylap,waiting for them to stop falling
i am working myself through these bones.i can discern beauty in the waymy ribs protrude from my skin, the waybruises bloom on my calves as easily as inkseeps into parchment.
uncertainty is a meal i can always finish.i.she says she thinks i wear my heart well,and i tell her it's only because i don't wear it at allii.sometimes i think my veins are breaking because they get so thin and purpleand sometimes they are blue as the sky we live under,bulging beneath the unbroken skin of my wrists like they are straining to touchthe oxygen that writhes above them, so close to contact butnever able to truly meet.iii.we stay together, not through thick,only through thiniv.my friend confessed her sexuality to usmaybe three months back,but i still can't seem to find my own "label"and it is sad because i want to be able to label myself in aworld where we are shamed by our namesv.i live in a city where the people care so little for each otherthat each passing day i am painfully remindedof how much i can hateand not enough of how much i can love
preoccupiedshe fought for an ending,and along the way, forgot to fight for the present.