#rosy-lips

[rosy-lips-blog1]

I want to disappear / right into thin air

like a magician does his old black hat

I am the rabbit / never coming back.

the world seems brighter when it’s dim

but nothing heals / the wounds on my skin

not a kiss, not a bandage, not the hope of no more damage

just the thought of / disappearing

[rosy-lips-blog1]

It’s the thought of your hands, pulling on my sleeves. It’s the memory of warmth, slowly, overtaking me but the dark comes sooner than we think and all that’s come to pass merely sinks.

 It’s the creeping of the cold while I’m awake in bed, chilling all my toes causing me to retreat instead. Underneath the blankets, safety is a statement, I repeat over and over in my head. 

 Shivering frozen. Unsure of what’s broken. I can’t say the words that leave me in a trance. Terribly empty, no longer crying I just envy all the girls that spin in search of living life like it’s some kind of dance.

 It’s the knowledge that I have that yields no peace. It’s this body growing heavy, wishing for relief. I am pregnant with the thought of giving life to death but oh, how I hope for something significant that may be left.

 It’s in the pieces, tiny fragments, of somebody else. Once a girl, I guess but there are no dolls kept on her shelf. She’s a flower, she’s a cherry, picked and spat out and it’s contrary that there’s nothing more to give than that.

  I thought I learned from my mistakes but it seems I’m still at fault. Gone the stupid girl, now, the foolish adult.  I can’t look any longer and I can’t remain. I’m as stable as the drought this summer: grass all dried up and in need of rain.

 Still, it’s the thought of your hands, ink upon my sleeves. It’s the memory of words slowly, overtaking me but you are just imagined and soon you’ll begin to fade like the black stain on these fingers and the youth from my face.

 It’s the thought of “I don’t know if I’m a river or a stone.” Either moving forward or stuck to where I’ve grown. Perhaps, a little bit of both or neither at all. I suppose the way I’m living is knowing where it’s safe to fall but  safety is a statement, I repeat over and over in my head.  Underneath my blankets, wide-awake in bed.

 No more safety, afraid of safely ever going back to safe.

[rosy-lips-blog1]

If I were a rose I’d be stung by the bumble bee, scattered in the wind before the Queen, after dying at her feet.