Roses Can Change.White roses make youcrybecause they remind youof him.To see you smileand take the painfrom your eyes,I'd prick each of myfingertipsand drip my bloodonto each velvet petalthat adorns the snaking vineso that the red roseswill make you thinkof me.
They Call This Drowning.We fell in love;A deep and surgingwatercolor seawith lilac waves thatwrestled with our ailingbodies,and azure air that choked ourlungs.We were in over our heads.
Flawed Canvas.Your lipsleft watercolorstainsall across my heart.My blood isn't evencrimson anymore,its a pale and dyinglilacthat bleeds onto the floorand paints a pictureof you.
One Day His Life Will Be a Classic.There's sorrowon his lips,and sonnetsin his eyes.Each scar on his wrist,speaks in fatal monologue.He lives a tragedynot evenShakespeare could write.
december.and when they take meto the morgue,will you see the differencebetween my skin and the sheet?and when they close my eyesplease be standing over me,so that your facewill be the last thing they see.and when those tears falldown from your facepour them on my lips,so i can take you with me.and when they look awaycaress my bloodless face,give me one last gush ofwarmth.and when they bring the casketgently tuck me away to sleep,read me one last storyfrom that book atop the shelf.and when they place me in the ground,beneath six feet of dirt,leave your footprints in the snowand please don't let them melt.and when I fall to helli'll be waiting at the gates,but darling please take your timethere is no need to rush.
Revamped Renaissance.Let's start theRenaissanceall over again.All we need to dois obtain heartsso that we can take a knifeand make our veinspump out art.From dark and empty alleyscreeps the melancholicdroneof an old decaying organ,with your fingers dancingacross the keys.From the shadows of achapelcries the gentle songthat I pull forth from thisblood bedewed violin.Every creature stopsin the revelto tremble at this musicthat meets at the gallow's base.And here we sit inFlorencewith you behind a canvaspainting me with ink stained handsfrom the flow of wordsI pour onto parchment.Hang the saints in oil,I'll trap their gloryin inkand together history will belongto us,because it is we whocause the rumorswhispered into facts.All day long we dreamand all night we runawake through the city streetsbecause in this life we arekings.All of our wounds,our battle scars,are hidden behind Venetian masks.It's a shame that we weremartyrs.
3:19 AMand at first i called you asthma,because you made it hardto breathe,but then i realizedyou're justnicotine.
Arachnophobia.You caught mein your webof liesspun oh so carefully,in such a prettypattern.When you lured me,all tangled upand trapped,you whispered your venomin my earsand injected your poisoninto my heart.I never hated spiders,until I metyou.
jigsaw puzzle.i found you as brokenpiecesscattered about the ground,all mixed upin the dirt.it took some time,but i did tryto reassemble your body and mindand to mend that velvetheart.i didn't have the boxto go bybut i think the outcomeis beautiful.
whispers.i was so hesitantto take your hand,because when you said you loved mei knew you meant itand that scared the hell out of me.
Story Time.You are an open bookIn a language that I cannotRead.
11:47roses are redviolets are bluecompliments mean nothingwhen coming from you.don't tell me i'm skinnydon't call me fatjust acknowledge i'm humanand leave it at that.
long distance relationship.and do you thinkthe moonever gets sadwhen the sun leaves herto shine forus?
Marigolds.I bought the flowersto put in your hair.Now people are telling methey'd look betteron your grave.
Recast.It's not naturalfor a corpse to beso warmand a living soulto be so cold.Let's switch places;allow me to lie in yourcoffin,while you sleepin my bed.
Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,A plot unfurling from your touch,And poetry in your eyes.You speak with golden glory,Into sentences of hate,And promises of lies.You are the bookI never had the words to write.
you're so blind.here i am drowningand you have no idea what to do,you're so lostand panicking.why don't you take your handsoff my shoulders?
Featherstruth is a bird with broken wingspretending it can fly-
bon appetitshe extracts her heartfrom her cavernous centerlike a no-good tooth.coughing, she serves it upon fine painted ceramics.he lifts his fork,spears the meat.chewing, jaw swaying,he samples a bite.then he frownsand spits intohisnapkin.
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
.i think you know of hair wound tight round a hand like ropeof thoughts that sail in and let down anchorin the night, sleep drifting away on the black tide,i think you know of god up in the crow's nest, keeping watchhis eyes have rolled at us so much they rattle, loose nowin their pits like marbles, they say he knowsi have examined the slides of my childhood, uprooted my body,yanked myself out of my years with my own gloved handlike a weed and stared in disgust, it's only naturalthat you should still want to sleep with one arm overyour head, she said, don't you think?i think the sun lit upthe world's scarsand felt bad, hung its headthrough the horizonand cried in shamenow i don't think it's evergoing to stop raining(i am holding up my mind, i am shoving it in your face)
Glassi found a mangled bodyand tried to fix it.but i got too closeand ended up cutting myselfon the jagged remains.the bleeding hasn't stopped.
DeathwishI want to fall in love with a boywho has a deathwisha tsunami raging in his eyesblood like lavaand a caved in chest like a landslideI would tremble from the tremors of hisoff the richter scale wordsand gently kiss the palms of his war-torn handsI would stand in the no man’s landbetween his legs, between two sides of a civil warand when his skin begins to sink around thewrecked hull of his ribsI would whisper that the famine will end one dayif he’d just break the dam of his teethholding back the flood in his mouthhe would be a deathwishand I would watch him self-implodewith a whimper rather than a bangleaving the faintest trail of destructionin the stain of his fingertipsburning down my back.
Suffering Taught Me CompassionI am thinking a lot lately. A bit too much. I have a condition that puts me through this deep depression every few years. Sitting here, alone at home, I really started to see the world differently. I think, for the first time in my life, I realised what compassion is. Just a few months ago, I would go out in the world and judge people for what they do and think. Now, when I am the same as them, I understand. So I thought I wanted to share my thoughts and experience with you, so you feel just a tiny bit not alone....When I was in eight grade, I was in this rather strange school. It supposedly educated kids using the “American” system, whatever that would mean. It was basically a brainwashing machine. On paper, the school is the best one in Bulgaria, mostly everyone who graduates it is able to go where she wants. But there was a darker side. If anyone didn't behave like the perfect student they started to resort to some serious psychological violence, which included locking
Work of art.Don't wince at my scars, instead use them to find where I am broken, and put your body against the cracks.Don't let me fall out of myself again, the parts might fit together, but the breaks are never clean.Sometimes I feel like glass in the middle of a war zone, just the sound of goodbye may destroy me.I've picked up the pieces before, cut myself with shards of who I was, carefully pasted them together with who I am, hoping no one would notice.The trouble is the masking tape I used, doesn't seem to mask anymore.The trouble is I leave tiny bits of myself behind me, just so I can be found.The trouble is my heart is made of clay and it might just break with one more fall.Maybe that's the wonder of me, even once i've broken…I can break again.© Rocio Belinda Mendez
a difference in milestones-your steps are steady,thunderous, lightningcrackling in your hands,impossible to forgetand mineare quiet, far too gentleto ever leave behind a mark,as if questioning if I wasever there at all-
WearinessI have no words leftto offer this broken earthNo light remainingto brighten anyone's life.But plenty of tears to drown in. I can say your words for youif you so wishbut they will not be mine.And I can take your darkness upon my shouldersit doesn't mean that you'll be fine.And in the end what am I left with?Friends who love me as their ownA family urging me to earn a throneAnd two thin, slumped shoulders.Give me your burden.It won't make much of a difference anyway.
How Love Works.I neverfell in love withyou,you neverfell in love withme.Your demonsfell in love withmine,my demonsfell in love withyours.