to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,stop. turn around. i understand you,to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and i understand the sadness
entrenched in your bones. i understand
the late nights spent in anxious prayer
to the towels, to the creaky floorboard
just outside your parents' room, to the sink
that stains too easily. i understand
the catastrophic glances that people throw you
when you open your mouth and try
to belong. i understand the intense moments
spent in dressing rooms splicing together outfits
that will gracefully sweep past tally-marked wrists and ankles
and hopefully make sense in the dead of summer.
i understand the nights that you carve the emptiness
onto the razor and wonder if it wouldn't be better
to just die tonight instead. no one can be angry...
or disappointed...or judgmental...or sympathetic (because
sometimes forced empathy is the worst)...when you
no longer exist. it just stops. and anything
has to be better than this.
well, you're right about one thing. it does
get better. and not in that corny way
people tell you. you won't se
DamageLast night you left the light onDamage2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you walked away,
perhaps to convince yourself [just the way
you promised me] that you weren't
looking back. I closed the door,
perhaps inviting it to be opened again, if
you had the courage. I left the flowers
strewn on the floor, our favorite wedding vase
smashed against the kitchen linoleum.
I found you on the stoop, two hours later,
fingers stretching toward the door. I sighed,
knelt beside you, and grasped your hand.
Your downcast eyes never met mine.
This time I let you shut the door yourself.
Four SinnersSt Peter rapped smartly on the door to the chambers of the Lord, before pushing them open to see the homely white room beyond. The Lord stood up from his seat at the desk and welcomed the saint with open arms, a loving smile on his lips.Four Sinners3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Peter,” he said, his voice soft and deep, like a father’s to a toddler, “how is it I may help you today?”
“My Lord, I know it is unorthodox, but a group of murderers have requested your presence at their judging.” Peter replied, “Each claims to have an injury which excuses their sins.”
The Lord considered this, then nodded solemnly, walking slowly out of the room. His steps were heavy, his stance reflecting his sadness at the necessity of their punishments.
Outside the gates’ white swirls, four men knelt, heads bent. The Devil loitered casually off to one side, his dark robes emanating fear that swirled around him. He and the Lord embraced, as over the millennia their mission has become one a
MetamorphosisI wrote you a letter -Metamorphosis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tried to phrase a suicide note,
but instead came out
with words that butterfly with hope
and blades that divide decisions
and not wrists. It spoke of love,
of that quiet desperation that I feel
when I am waiting for you to meet my glance,
your averted eyes poised with concentration. It spoke
of how long I waited to build a lifetime
with you, and how in many ways I still am.
It spoke of promises that balloon as uncontrollably
from my chest as panic sometimes drums from
my feet. But mostly,
it spoke of the destructive power of trust;
moment by moment, you destroy my barriers. I
mutilate beyond repair.