LyingViaPoetry

fabricated gods rest between the languid crevices of her fingertips, scribbling profanities all over her skin. she's just mismatched bones & blue bruises, telling of forbidden love through archaic letters. a tongue made for wanderlust, & eyes made for the stars, even the devil fears her.

I’ve got this arrow curled around my finger like Apollo’s heart & your nicknames engraved on the inside of my lungs. I don’t want to write pretty little stanzas or pick at the seams of your poetry like some deadbeat psychology major - I want to scribble profanities all over everything; shoot down your moon & wear her like a charm around ink stained wrists. I want to    take you        to the stars,                    & leave you there.

She thinks there are nebulae in the rough of my gutter bones, some stargazing sanctuary for lonely outcasts to lay their heads. I am but a car crash, spellbound inside eyelids, & red inked corrections on crosshatched skin. Made up of moans, the clutching of bedsheets; I am contemplating ripping my ribs apart & proving I never had a heart at all. But my moon shy love; she is determined to try & wake the dead.

Poetry, it’s like cultivating a greenhouse with broken fingers. -dp

    Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,    your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece    that buckled just before your whole foundation                            t                          o                   p               p          l       e    d               over?                               I have.   & no matter   how many times   I've restarted your heart,   one would think             I'd grow tired,   eventually;   I'm still writing you in poetry      (in the most inappropriate of places.)   You forced yourself beneath my blades                                 & my fingertips,   Licking unsta

I was told to slice through the thickest of scar tissue this evening. Let all my inner demons fall to the floor & write them out in my own black blood. It’s not red anymore, even though needles & the bruises laid out like war-lands on my arms say otherwise. I don’t think it ever was, honestly. Therapeutic, they said. My mind is a mess of free versed insecurities, cat’s eye marbles, & untamed forest fires- but, I still don’t have the nerve to slice open my skin & bleed for her.

I wish I could live on nothing but air; killing the hunger to consume every improvised lie.      (Maybe all along,                 I've been the wolf in                            sheep's clothing.) Why is it that when I exercise my own feeble infallibility, these fangs just continue to hone on fraudulence?      (It's too painful                   to continue howling                         at this contorted reflection.) Yet every time I take an ax to exterminate the counterfeit beast, its claws just leave another patch of scars on the inside of my skin to remind me just what I am.                (The girl who cried wolf      

I might have a scrappers knees, wildflowers growing on my knuckles, & I might remind you of every nasty thing you ever did, but I don’t see you in my mirror. I just have the right to hate my own face. - Oh atlas, I think this hitchhiker’s heart is breaking & I don’t have the medical skill- or the time to suture the pieces back together again. So please; lead me, lead me anywhere, but here.