The venom that dripped from her lips
was that which you wouldn't expect from such an unassuming girl,
but she spit gasoline and her tongue had the treacherous tell-tale taste of sulfur and flint.
There was no way of mistaking that fire that coursed through her veins
and caused her pulse to whiplash anyone who tried to prove her wrong.
She hated condescension, and arrogance, and the smell of her hair after a shower,
but lived recklessly for sunsets
and stargazing and
sleeping with the window open,
just in case her heart decided to go skinny-dipping with the man on the moon.
She was all wrong for me,
and even worse for herse
You and I are the definition of fatal attraction,
like a serotonin deficiency to the pretty side of the blade,
like the heavy-hearted pebble that wants to trails its lips across still waters,
like sun-bleached and wind-whipped birch paper to the lustful licks of shadow-dancing candle flame.
I expect everything to fail - us, no exception -
because having to hold my hopes up is far too hard on my limbs,
when my wrists just want to bleed out,
my shoulder blades still ache from tearing out my wing span,
and my fingertips burn from when they learnt to trust, and then couldn't hold on when that trust fell out from under them.
You say you
No doctor, no surgeon, no orthodonist, or mortician can make us pretty.
Only we can make ourselves pretty.
Granted, it will take a hell of a lot more than scalpels and wires and plastic and paint and a fistful of bills and self-loathing.
Something a little more powerful than a double-degree in medicine and disdain.
Something rarely found in the scraped and sculpted bones of souls sold to appease the masses.
A little love, self-appreciation, and the realization that that face, that body, those 'flaws' in the mirror are not who we are, but instead what prevent us from being that person we long to be.
life
gave me
you
gave me
lemons
gave me
a sour tongue
i can't drink lemonade
anymore because it
tastes like
your breath on my lips
tastes like
your death on my hips
tastes like
another bittersweet dream
where you're a holy grail
of ice-cold lemonade,
and i'm just ice-cold;
where you're saccharine sugar,
and i'm a diabetic;
where your blood flows
like the fountain
of you-
th
e fountain of y
chromosomes, but y chromosomes
are like oil & water. they don't mix.
like citric acid & stomach acid. but
you just do acid. and lsd (love-sick
drug) and x. especially x. x as in
k
A Promise She Made With Death by SoImStillUnsure, literature
Literature
A Promise She Made With Death
She was conceived on the edge of a mirror,
lined with pretty white lace,
that burned the inside of her parents' nostrils.
She was born with a hole in her heart,
that the doctor's never noticed,
and no one bothered to fill.
She met Death on the playground,
when kindergarten was bending her bones.
Enticed by the glinting of his scythe,
as it preyed on a malformed baby rabbit.
She made a pinky promise with him,
swearing that she'd never forget his face.
He came and went,
swayed by corpse breaths
and east-coast winds,
but always leaving her alone.
He showed her how to hurt,
in the worst kind of way.
And each time,
he paid her a visit,
he'd ta
I do hope ye'll be comin' back ta enjoy more of me poetry and literature and all the other things that will come up daily. That' right, DAILY, because we're hardcore