icemy white wings are too heavy to carry just as you promisedMore Like This
they would be.
massage them from my shoulders,
your rough hands your white skin
my white bones soaking.
is that what we want, water and light?
to be made and remade
and melt like sculptures of ice
my father looks to his wife who looks to her daughter
who looks over to me as I stare at the window
and my hands
you are not going to die I promise
someone will kill you first.
have you met them yet
it might be you that holds me in the morning
kiss me- you'll never be disappointed.
my back against the wall as you hold me.
my white wings are too heavy to carry and my halo would fit better
as a collar
around your neck or
maybe your wrists.
has anyone ever told you just how good you look in gold?
I'm sure they have
when I'm outside the fog is cold
and it's good to be cold
so I do not melt and the dew crystals
drip from my halo.
what I want to be is what you said I could be
and not some cheap imitation of glass
the light from my clear eye
Internet FriendsInternet friends are fake, unreal, untrustworthy.More Like This
Parents say , “Don't give your information
to someone who may do something dirty!
They're liars, evil and rapist in waiting.
Their compliments and gifts
are just another form of baiting.”
I'd like to think that we judge without
getting to know,
what happens on the other side of the mouse.
Internet friends are there when we're alone,
till 2 a.m on weeknights,
chatting with us until the pain is gone.
They're always there to confide,
when we're sometimes
on the verge of suicide.
Pulling us through our depression,
begging us not to relapse,
not to succumb to our regressions.
“Get help, not attention,” they'll tap in chat,
as a response of a picture,
that'll show our wrists all hatched.
Sometimes it's the little things they do for us,
like sending “You're amazing” “You're beautiful”,
“You're so full of love.”
They encourage us at times when our “friends” don't,