|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
It Isn't Wrong...I used your words to form an apology
Because I didn’t know another way
To make you acknowledge me
But I’m still here, you know
As much as I was a year ago
I’m going in blind and taking shots in the dark
But I’m pulling every word from the bottom of my heart
I’ve had a lot of time to see things straight
You’re someone that I love, that I could never hate
That’s why every time I tried forgetting about you
I couldn’t force myself to do what I had to do
Now I can see your pain, I’m sorry I put you through it
If there was one thing I could change
You know that I would undo it
I don’t want to live, I don’t want to breathe
The reason we’re like this is all because of me
I don’t want you to be yet another closing door
You think I could care less, darling, I couldn’t care more
Take away from this all the evidence you need
I miss you just as much as you say you miss me
I want this forced silence to come to
no,what is shared between me
and my blades
is all but a secret.
late nights, alone,
blood stained fingers and
having to replace the pillow
case in the morning,
because my parents will never know
what i have started again.
and when they see the
commercials on TV,
they silently think of me.
Monday Morning (I Know)It was mentioned casually
at the breakfast table:
“A boy from school
committed suicide last night.
Did you know him?”
I know the way
the night sky wrapped itself
around his shoulders
and ripped itself away,
and how to him, light-years
were a measure of time
and not of distance.
I know that darkness
was darker for him,
and that light was
always too bright.
I know that smiling was painful
in all seventeen muscles,
and that it was a relief
I know that he carried
the depression on his shoulders,
and that he spent half the day
hiding it away from everyone,
and the other half
wishing somebody would notice.
I know that he was the best actor,
and that everyone believed
that his eyes sparkled from happiness
and not from tears.
I know that he was so good,
he never had to lie and say
“I’m fine,” because
nobody ever asked.
I also know that today, the halls
will echo with silence
and the occasional small cry,
courtesy of the people
who never really knew hi
mascarai don't know why i wear mascara when it always ends up on my cheeks by night.
the moon is full but i am not. i'm hungry but it's mostly my eyes. i want to eat the city and the lights, swallow stars and coins in the fountains.
instead i'm alone in my apartment, with no glass but small windows facing the brick walls of my neighbours. i am empty except for the bricks which weigh heavily and hollowly at once. i swallow nothing but city air and exhaust, fumigating my lungs in hopes of eradicating the lacke thereof.
i am full of tears that were locked up since i was sixteen, pressurised in the marrow of my bones to the point of begrudging congestion. bitterness is what makes eyelashes grow-- there should be no surprise that i can't see.
broken knuckles and chipped paintshe was beautiful
in the way a whore is beautiful-
crude and angry around the edges
with perfume too strong
and a smile strangely uncouth.
when she opened her mouth
sharp-tongued snakes and well-chosen barbs
slithered out and made themselves at home
while she cupped you in her hands
giggling at the fool in both palms.
she was cruel
in the way wolves are cruel-
not by want or by malice
but by nature and by design.
and she'd leave you behind
the first chance she finds
gnawing old wounds
and lighting the signs
and then you'll see
Mirror, MirrorI can't stand the sight of my reflection.
Every time I see her, I cringe. Look at her - the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the slumped shoulders, the half-empty gaze that stares back at me. She's disgusting. She's a monster.
But is she real? Am I real?
I don't know.
Maybe she's the real one and the reason she looks the way she does is because she always sees me and is terrified that something horrible will happen. Maybe I'm the real one and I'm terrified that she's going to let that something occur.
Or maybe we're just the same person and I'm letting my thoughts become too unraveled. There's no such thing as another side to a mirror. It's just a piece of glass that reflects that which is in front of its surface. But then again, what do I know? Not much, if I'm being completely honest.
There are times where I'll pass my reflection and stop, stare at her, and the urge to do nothing more but take her hand and say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've said t
Keep in Touch!