a walk across the park

i found something out
my tracing paper is what they call a lonely child
with poems bleeding from her arms, a walk across the park
i’ve written every bite of love i’ve taken from anyone
and no one wrote about me
i slipped on the tears they sketched of themselves
every possible heartbeat away from my cruelness,
no one wrote about me
a turn-around side-ways glance, i tempt fury in people too tried to grieve me
make sure not to waste the paper or time

i shed my skin hundreds of times a year but my skin sticks to the walls
i remember everything at once in a moment

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tracing paper

i have wires instead of veins
and i have no tolerance for intolerance of numbness
for your desperate glorification of  emotions after loving Emptiness
i have been trapped behind tracing paper
existing on a flat plane somewhere behind a reality
one-thousand one-year-old conversations constantly on play
recreating, brainwashing myself into generations of nobodys
empty laughs and stabs in the back made me someone else, but she doesn’t exist

ginger snap

they told me no one cared about me in saliva-shut envelopes
sent me away to sit alone with their lies tucked inside my sleeves with bloody and snotty tissues
and it’s not 3, i was wrong
it’s 4, it’s 7, it’s 84
breaking me up like ginger snaps, a piece for you and a piece for you a piece for you and another piece for you
save the crumbs for me, everyone feasts

sit on a bed in the bright darkness with the lamp off
you tell me there’s nothing i should care about because nothing matters to anyone else
and a caught out lie is an accusation of character — lies are secrets you stir inside you while dinner cooks on the stove and your knuckles bruise
it’s 3 days without food because lies keep you full—————

pretend people

 

everyone i’ve ever met has told me the same small secret with their mouth shut
wanted the same quick ending for me
breaking conversations with silence — ‘don’t you know how boring yyou are?’
looks around the table like it’s time to stop now,
stop in two ways
my only purpose is being their idea of a waste of space.
the three voices
they’re all real and i’m stuck in a pretend place

lemon wedge

i let nostalgia sit so close to me on the train that their fingers tickled the lump at the back of my throat. They say, You’re still listening to the same songs you loved in high school, you’re still angry like you were in high school, and nothing about you is exactly as it was in high school.

the inside of my nose stings and my eyes scatter over the edges of disappointment, because i remember how it felt to feel when i wasn’t ashamed of feeling. i remember how it tasted to enjoy other people, other things, any things. now i have silence like a lemon wedge between my teeth, bitter in the memory of jokes and words and advice.

nostalgia curls the ends of my nails, and i am used to holding on to the bad things longer than anything. i have ruined myself.