It's Me.

Holy flashback, a piece written in the dog days of freshmen year.

It’s Me

Long waves crash on the ocean of her back

as bangs frame her face preparing for a picture perfect headshot;

with lips that dance like her hearts’ open flames she opens her mouth

like an oyster showcasing a valley of pearls and a cloudy puff of peppermint aroma.

Her eyes are rimmed with a delicate powder

the color of seashells, wet with the moon’s reflection.

She always thought maybe she deserved a little more

than a bed to sleep in, or the bigger piece of pie

because of all those faces that have entered

windows she swears to have had locked and

entered her body without invitation sitting oh so,

coyly on that windowsill, now chipped with secrets.

You could never tell by looking at her, but place a scale beneath her feet

and you will see that something is not weighing up

for soggy saturated memories flood the burden that is her soul,

mind carries barrels of pictures of a few not-so-precious moments she’d rather

forget. However, her heart is an open gate letting people in an out freely, but the people

she keeps there do not return the favor, for those she lets rest inside her do not exist, but

are just as real as you and I. The people who love her are the people she bans from napping beneath her chest because she hates them for the very fact, they love her.

I hope that you read this, behind black bars

know that it’s you in that faded blue t-shirt with the frayed hem with

sharp cruel eyes that don’t match your enticing smile, but rather your

actions, I hope that you read this knowing

it’s me. 

White Steed.

White steed is a key to a door without a keyhole.
Perhaps it's some security, the widening threat of never awakening.
One pinpoint to make you whole; a hunger for death's kiss fails to feed your soul.
Slip off into a dream, still pondering this loss of freedom - what is your role?

Harlow Blake, we'd call her, spat from the womb of a blackened spoon
and rocked asleep by bruised arms under a sorrowful moon,
only to be awoken each mourn with the alarm of a romanticized smack.
The ultimate maternal crime, a baby soothed on toxic milk's corrupt croon.

Misery courses through many a vein,
leaving you drooling in an all white facade,
'tis a sick recipe without a prescription, as a distorted euphoria lays across your brain.
Sanity and control: no longer can we feign.

Mama, papa, oh where to place blame?
Diluted into a puddle, drained into a cup, swallowed right up,
mere pawn in someone else's game.
So bright, so handsome, so the gentle words surround, "What a shame."