Porcelain Doll
A broken, beaten, porcelain doll
with dark curls and pale skin
emerald eyes and rosebud lips
revealing nothing and speaking none
because her eyes are closed
and her mouth is shut
and her curls fall limp
and her skin is cold
and she does not move
because she’s afraid to live
and afraid to die
so she does nothing
because it’s easier than something
and it’s easy to be broken
and beaten
and silent
and limp
and cold
and still
and afraid.
Sometimes
Sometimes he sits
For hours at a time
Staring at the wall
Waiting for nothing
Because nothing is all there is
Sometimes he cuts himself
Because there’s nothing else to do
Sometimes he thinks about
Buying a gun
Sometimes he believes he will
Sometimes he sleeps
For two days straight
He has no reason to wake up
The endless nothing is all he has
To look forward to
Sometimes he wishes
That he were never born
Sometimes he begs the creator
To kill him
Sometimes his prayers go unheard
physical memories
On the inside of your palm;
one faint pink indention
On the outside of your thigh;
two bold scars
On your arm just by the shoulder;
three jagged lines
On your arm just by the wrist;
four leftover slashes
On your heart, deep in your chest;
ten bloody marks
that are dripping
as if weeping..
Slow Motion Rush
I’m breaking down beneath my breath,
Your craving hands unclose me.
Conflagrant conversation, a hundred summers,
Melt the holds below me.
The whispered din behind closed doors
Pulls us both below,
The waves of what we’re waiting for,
Crashing on the lamp-light glow.
Our turning hands together tangle,
In knots that tie themselves,
Around, around, in every angle,
As shadows dance on bookcase shelves.
Your outline blurs my twisting frame,
Your face a reddening blush,
Green eyes flow about as flame,
Dancing this slow-motion rush.
