I’ve been forced to stay a while in this moment;
between the severed trees
and broken bones
in the summer blood moon’s smile.
Your fingers dance
in the boiling wine
from yesterday’s leftovers
and drip their poison
onto undeserving lips,
cracked and longing for relief
as I lap at the sweet remains.
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I want to break the binds,
and reject the embrace
I’m stuck in.
I want to sever the knots
in the stitches holding
the hurt inside my head.
I want to scream in the silence
and shatter the glass cage
keeping the numbing ice
pressed against my skin,
when all I need
is the warmth
of gentle fingertips
and the tenderness
of delicately spoken promises.
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I’m not ready to catch a train,
but I wonder
if I should start preparing
for your departure.
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I have finally crawled out of the shadows
from under the bed to write you the poem.
You do not deserve my words.
You do not deserve my hurt.
But this,
this is your poem.
You are that stray Lego throwing yourself
on the carpet to cause me pain,
begging me to hurt myself,
so you did not have to take the blame.
You are a first draft.
And if I need to explain the horrors in that statement,
you are a writer
that doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’
You are the opposite of poetry.
You are a kindergarten art project.
Everybody wants to spare someone so small,
so they lie,
“Looks great honey.”
I’m dragging my way out of the crawl space,
putting myself in the open,
to write you a poem you won’t even read,
but will try to find the spark notes for.
You are the worst kind of person.
Making me feel stupid for my excitement,
making my feelings seem unjustified,
making my emotions yours.
You always wanted a poem about you,
so here it is.
You are everything I now know to stay away from.
You are my warning signs.
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Time is precious, and lonely knows it.
He is a greedy man, stealing moments
that should be spent filling your heart,
not your cup. He locks your mind in a
box, leaving the slideshow of memories
from a time you were not alone. He
leaves your aching heart to mend its
own, knowing your only company is
pain and the numbing substance of
your choosing.
You did not love my talent. You were not
infatuated with the way my mind worked,
bringing simple words together into
visionary pleasures.
You were attracted to my pain, not the poems,
giving me inspiration for my passion. You
fueled both addictions with the bloodless
murder your words committed, each of us
getting a fix through my emotions.
The warning bells ring,
wailing sirens sound,
in a village of people who cannot hear them.
You cannot yell at the deaf
any more than you can punish a saint
or injure a masochist.
I wish I was a poison dart,
dark red blood floods when
my needle pierces your skin.
Imagine how sick I could
make you with the venom
running in your veins,
aiding the words meant
to sting you.
I want your ears to ring
at the filling of your blood
with a hurt that you deserved
so long ago. And I want
to be the last thing you see
before you say good-bye.
I’m a flaming ball of destruction;
A meteor hurtling towards earth,
searching for the center of a volcano
to burrow in the magma
and prepare for the explosion.
I’ll erupt in a furious fountain
of hurtful meanings and dishonorable opinions.
I’ll suffocate you slowly with smoke
created by carefully crafted phrases.
I’ll burn you slowly with lava of negativity
that used to boil quietly within me.
And once all is said and done;
When nothing’s left from blood and bone;
The ashes of my own demise
will cover you like a blanket
while the darkness kisses you to sleep.
Marysa Writes 