To Write Love On Her ArmsI didn't let myself forget to despise myself by writing hate on my arms, in black and red and jaundice-yellow. When the hatred isn't enough, and I look in the mirror, I see it crawling all over me, all sick and putrid and rotting, and I write filth into my thighs.To Write Love On Her Arms5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The bread is broken on the table, all crusts and jagged edges, and everyone is watching, eyes wide shut, when I write loneliness in my eyes.
When 'I love you' doesn't mean quite enough, I write bitterness on my lips and pierce it through my tongue, and when it feels like light and hope and life I carve despair on my heart, because it's all silver smoke and gilded mirrors.
I wake on the Golden Sunday, but the hatred on my arms, the filth on my thighs, the bitterness on my tongue weigh me down, and it's rainy Thursday before my despairing heart beats again. I walk in the sodden, soaking air, and I write escape into my dreams.
On Friday, I etch grief into my throat, and fear
TWLOHAShe sat in her room,TWLOHA5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
The cold wooden floor touching her jeans.
She traced her wrist,
The place that was so tempting,
Her demons whispered to her,
She picks up a near by maker,
Like the blood she sheds,
And on her wrist she writes,
With sloppy, unstable handwriting,
"To Write Love On Her Arms"
But she doesn't stop inking her arm,
The pain has yet to leave,
She writes, still the handwriting is shaky,
'Once more' She thinks,
And in large, cursive letters,
She caps the maker and begins to cry,
She had never been so proud of herself.