thinThe feeding begins;thin by dreamingshadow
pumps and pipes slit and slip under bone yawned skin,
this is what the sick machine brings -
a thick screaming slurry to silence the brittle chalk white bone rings
each slick of oozed broth
wrapping vulnerability like cloth
and smothering the caged heart that sings.
You will be soft, you will not spike;
you will roll in the sheets as a marshmallow in the night;
with no rivets or pivots for nightmares to pool in
they will sink through your marsh pink and wrestle deep under your skin.
How will a skeleton speak, of a mind torn through the grave
when each syllable is dribbled
out of a living, flabby cave?
You know the game's up,
you know you can't ever win.
You could see that then as fat belched under your skin.
How will they understand, just filling you with life,
that no nozzle or pipe can fill up the death in your eyes.
They changed me, dressed me healthy. Fattened me like the rest.
Please see the real me, skeletal,
within this hell house of flesh.
butterflya waking lily on your lipsbutterfly by dreamingshadow
choking butterfly at your side
heart's metal case
rust pouring down my eyes
a desperate gasping, fluttering,
decision a butterfly at your side
still burns torn paper eyelids
where nothing is tonight
yet you are still alive
and the fight is still alive
of wings on fire at your side
gasping butterfly burning bright
the decision at your side
the black blaze a bed unmade of flightless
all the countless ways we've tried in
our countless forgotten lives
to unburden us of
a decision at your side
that knows of still not satisfied
while wings still scream and
maybe you are not alive
or alive is knowing
feelers carving cheek white while closing
a decision at your side pouring thirst to
and dream for time
for we have never died
breathed our deaths felt them inside
swallowing guns and crying knives
caught in each other's
butterfly torture at your side
a dance of hope so
Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.Hunger Pains by intricately-ordinary
I forget to eat for a few months and
I drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,
the ones they fill books and barren wrists
and stormy heads with, and soon,
moonlight shines from inside
my ribs and I am a lighthouse.
Thank you for the things you gave me,
intrinsically, a knowledge of
how to properly wear
myself. Thank you
for not fixing me.
I used to write about the color
of your voice, always blue-- the sky
before I fell asleep and the morning
dragging me back; I wonder
that you could’ve loved me better
if you explained who the
Something was that shared your bed
at night, or why insincere words
were your favorite.
My poems still cling to my skin
even when I sleep. even when
I wake, an anchor. even when
I boil myself alive and unfold
like a pallid lily inside your
and after enough time,
I forget to say goodbye.
I pick the scabs on my hips,
kiss the sorry out of your smile,
and breathe like this air
isn’t already a million years old.
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