A lone wicker stool intricately cuts in half
the hardened kitchen,softened, by oaken branches
hoarding moonlight, preventing the crystal clear
cups from revealing the faint smudges
left on his face as his breath slowly
fogs a curved reflection, the cabinets creak
and slowly splinter, chipping in disproportionate
patterns connectable only through the dots
of wormhole marks left under their natural stain,
marble counters hide droplets of spilled milk
in creamy camouflage until they overflow their
self created edges with the unbounded salty
abandon of another sleepless night.
It opens by telling
“This is not for you”, unfortunately
caution was never in your character
and so you embarked, journeying to the
pivotal moments in my life, flipping through the
heartbreak that infested my otherwise mundane etchings
and pausing upon assumed smiles painted in verse,
plagiarized, nonetheless by myself, from the other me:
the one that hummed to the sound of your laugh
harmonically creating a melodic medication I used to
subvert some of the pain, and still the rest bled into those pages,
buffered, filtered through as if you caught all the dust before I could
inhale each breath making me more pure than I was a second ago,
but I always would exhale, inducing harm,
twitching, your eyes glance from line to line executing my text
and as you operate on me a continued nausea builds,
slowly affecting you and as you hear my footsteps in the hallway you
unsteadily replace that journal and
surprise yourself with an uneasy smile.
Depression grows, ever sprawling
against the walls of
Rooted in memories planted by
watered by peer pressure.
That poison ivy
exaggerated in media
beautified, even deified.
Life needs no exaggeration
forcing some towards medication,
wallpapering their room, essentially
renovating, making more space
but rarely ever cutting
down the plant.
I glide under the sky-scraping looks of
others as I partially inflate myself
with a heated sorrow, giving
rise to mere momentary self-loathing, for
a prolonged anger would cause
the entirety of my vessel to
catch aflame and burn alive.
Doubt infests like a weed
in the mind’s garden,
flowers that used to smell sweet
suddenly mutate into Venus fly traps,
bees once pollinating now sting,
song birds depart and vultures arrive. Waiting.
That idyllic little red bench now overgrown,
ridden with thorny scratchy things
I can’t bear to sit and linger there any longer,
I must leave this place.
I don’t understand it and I am frightened by it,
it’s sad when the Clock runs out on beauty.
The way you took her was bitter, cruel and unwise
I will run from you forever, into the deep woods
jumping at every shadow,
worried you have found me again.