soft arms and fresh
flesh wrap around the narrow connector of
head to chest
and force the life out –
bronchial tubes scream in agony –
miniskirts
live in boxes underneath
the stairs..
prayers for the girl
in the closet while
love pounds on the door
blood red roses posing
as daggers
as adoration drags their
thorns across
her face
romance and
passion lace the glass
with arsenic
her lips are given the last taste of
love as love takes her
last breath.
I am skin,
bones, and
two toned cheeks.
I reek of issues, baggage and
distance.
Walk a mile –
can’t find me. No mile
could. “While
you are looking, could you
grab me a latte? Double shots?
Thanks!”
I found
a story, a long time ago. It carried on and on and on. Redundant. It nearly drove me insane! Then, one day, the story changed! I think I was in shock. So, I walked miles and miles away.
The story couldn’t find me and I didn’t want it to. I have no use for stories; real or imagined!!
A boy came along and he
started writing, sketching words and illustrations in a binder.
He had longing in his eyes as he
sat under a hot, burning lamp. But, the
poor fool kept on writing.
He told me what he imagined
and hoped he could create.
Well…I listened and I smiled and
approved of his story. But he had the damn characters all wrong!!
I told him of my loathe for stories and how I may
regurgetate my lunch if he tried to write me in it.
He sulked, momentarily, but he went on his way. I suppose he writes in a new character
to take my place.
All the better for me.
I am skin,
bones, and it might be because of all the stories
that make me regurgetate my lunch.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 