She considers drowning a lovely thing.
Words and ink,
Throwing her lungs over her shoulder,
as she dives into the mess,
but not suicidal.
She is existing, at best.
We all have our hobbies.
touching her pearly throat,
nails digging in.
She can’t stay,
the waves piling above her head.
with a forked tongue,
pulling her farther along.
Time to make a decision.
There’s a demon in your television,
and an angel in your mouth.
I can taste your lungs,
black as anything.
sanctifying your sins.
with your collarbone and leather wrists.
I can feel your poisoned vertebrae,
quivering beneath my hands.
cutting off my breathing.
Turning me blue.
He dabbed a sprig of liquid lavender on one wrist.
Then the other.
His mirror gawked at him,
struck blind by such brazen behavior.
The crystal bottle shook as his hands did,
which made replacing the cap difficult.
His father didn’t know.
His father didn’t know about the silk scarves stuffed into a small slit in the upstairs mattress. His father didn’t know about the trips to the theatre district, and the lace costumes she had tried on.
Was there no mercy? No understanding?
Of course not,
this was a man’s world.
The body is a liar.
The body is a prison.
It has the early on-set signs of paranoia,
with cautious skin and structured organs.
It holds the heart hostage,
ribs casting shadows over each other.
Blood is a moat,
keeping life inside the throat.
One cut and you will see,
just how fragile life can be.