Ode to the way lies pour out of her lips
she bites her tongue and she makes blood the same way; she hurts me.
Ode the way she runs away from me.
There is art in not being chosen
there is art in not being seen,
there is art in people avoiding me.
Art that condemns the creation to go insane, to ravin for more weight that makes the earth revoke it back to its creator.
Thou created art, out of the madness she felt so when I took shape just to look like part of thee and thy lover, her eyes pierced right through mine—pleading.
She screams her lungs out.
I can't withstand the sight!
Thy lover's heart vibrates her ribs
I behove from my madness and stare;
it is my turn to become unfamiliar with myself
it's her turn to leave me here.
Ode to the way I rip apart just at the sound,
to the way she breaks me, so I say finish me.
She never does. Disappointing.
Finish what you've started,
what you can't complete
and seems like it can't be ended.
My body mends into forgiveness
the same way I bend and break to take shape, control of what drives me insane, of what makes me beg mirrors of her, for their validation.
There's something in me, something in my drunken emphasised moves I can't forgive; something I was once proud of:
my body, my skin, in the voice I now keep wrapped around my throat hoping it'll strangle the unwanted sides of me; maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, I should have bitten harder the skin on my lips, I should have stayed sober.
Ode to the way I vanish, once I'm gone
six feet under it will make no difference because on Earth it feels like I'm suffocating. On earth, it's like I'm trapped.
Ode to the way my body is selfish
so instead I decided to praise the way it hurts itself, the same way I shut my lips as a punishment to myself when hyperventilating for air.
I grasp, I try to reach the blood underneath my fingertips I just can't seem to keep clean, from all of impurities.
Bless the way I incessantly bite my nails but somehow it doesn't stop my fingers from digging into my skin: pulling, yearning to tear, scarring.
Sometimes my head spins and I wish I could stop the rocking, I wish I could stop the feelings—I hold back—from trying to awaken in me.
Ode to the way,
YOU ARE READING
𝐔𝚴𝐃𝚬𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐊𝚰𝚴
Poetry"I'd let you into my mind but you'd have to get under my skin" ITALIANO/ENGLISH "The devastation and the unspoken destruction in her mind were the greatest catastrophes I had ever laid my eyes on along with the darkness that came along were my muses...
