NaeTheBookAddict

Today I swallowed the bullets I couldn't catch between my teeth, though it seems I've died a thousand times trying But the taste, familiar now left iron trails down my throat that didn't sear as they once did the day before. One day ago it rained turpentine and the sky stripped me of color, robbed me to fill the clouds that others so adored And it was true that I had layers left, just a few beneath the ones brushed on in haste to cover the jagged canvas scars you tore. Two months prior I couldn't run fast enough, for the crimson trails of memory sunk its teeth into my ankles, heels, heart And no stammering that it wasn't fair would set m

Today I learned that disappointment lurks In eyes avoiding gazes- searching low For lost hopes in fate's messy handiwork, Instead of meeting eyes that yearn to know. The shrug, the silence palpable- I smirk, In hopes that crushed emotions will not show, And try to kill the part of me inside That can't do well enough to save my life.

It's waiting I guess that's the hardest Waiting for the thunder to shake down a few spare pocket-change raindrops at my feet Waiting for the sky to open its wallet and spill bills of storm-cloud air between my lips Waiting for the clouds to have mercy and downpour life into this gap in my world where I long for storms

I wasn't afraid because the trunk reached into the sky like a giant picking a cloud bouquet Sure, it was tall with no footholds in the flaking bark thick with rough gray-greenness and a few spiders Very tall I wasn't afraid because the branches were too thin (so was I) or the bark tasted sweat on desperate childhood forearms and left bite marks Torn skin and blood on my wrists didn't stop me from pulling myself higher I wasn't afraid because suddenly I was living among giants and crab-grass red brick home was farther away The streetlights watched at eye level and the view moved with my branch when it shook But I was afraid because from

Wasted Spilling our souls through frantic fingers breathing sweat slick on the keyboard Begging for an errant eye or a critical one, a pleasing word a connection, attention, a friend in the cyberspace void Searching for an answer in ourselves by silently clamoring for others to somehow see our screen-staring souls What are we doing here

Some say she was toned, and that may be true Certainly her ribs were bronzed  hills on the bareness below her bra before they sloped down into something people may call a tiny waist, if a tiny waist was constantly covered in rosy crescents, fingernail scratches from when tanned fingers traced her navel and found it too thick, too round Some say she smiled, and that was true as well Surely her peach lips parted and some semblance of a grin might have come into being there as her eyes flickered grey blue grey under painted lashes heavy with mascara, thick as the undercurrent of panic riding on her laughter, filling the seconds of silence wit

Sing! Sing! They cried at the door But her lips have been sewn- She'll sing no more Each critic, each voice Left the words in her head That compelled her to take up A needle and thread The blood soaked her lips And the ebony cord But she smiled- distorted- With no need for words

I'm giving up on these well-worn chairs, the sofa, crushed into submission by the weight of our domesticity. I'm done with the cracked corners and shuddering legs of an ancient end table, with the crackling black paint that sheds like feathers cascading from a decrepit dying raven. I am thoroughly through with the scratches, the imperfections of these floorboards. They mock me with every dent and furrow in oaken panels, smudged spitefully, reminders that our world is just complicated enough to bury a soul like mine.

Again these pages ripple, bending oh-so-carefully. Though my soul is tethered to my writing, oh, am I so free- Never to forget the scars and pain, the hurt, just let it flow as ink a binding link that any soul with sanity would think an absolute addiction- my life is now my work: fiction.

I wonder if it's possible my body knows the temptation of death- each breath is a struggle to unwilling lungs; air catches, barred from keeping this form alive. Legs bend, suddenly unable to compete with gravity and I crash little more than a skeleton temporarily shattered on the floor below, giving in to the void of unstable sleep. But not even darkness is enough to suffocate emotion- dreams of you slip through the cracks. Eyes flick open, my lips feeling traces of an imaginary kiss. Life is pain. Sleep is hell.