aka - how the end begins.
the process of extraction series.
*some lines have been pulled from older discarded pieces.
Perpetual footpaths
tread 'cross broken glass and shattered dreams;
how many times must we rake across coals
this dying carcass of an ill-fated love scene?
For too long
have days fallen and risen,
slave to circadian rhythms of your nocturnal heart.
My skin grows sallow in the shadows;
albino wrists bleeding tears,
open veins into open books.
You read me through clouded eyes,
rose-colored cataracts
tingeing the face of our truth:
These walls are closing in.
Hairline fractures in cracked foundations;
feet straddling doorways of forever.
I fell asleep on the front porch,
left the light on for your return,
and awoke to darkness
once again.
These walls are closing in.
Skeletons dancing in the windows,
closet door left open in haste.
You dressed too fast this morning,
forgot the heart for your sleeve.
Remembered how you liked to leave...
...me hanging
by nooses
when time grows too hard to hold onto.
Fingers brittle and broken.
Words as tombs,
turned empty and cold,
holding the bones of what
we had dared to begin.
Bury my heart in the front yard.
Kiss my gravestone
with lips too tight to speak.
I'm sick of this
myth of Sisyphus,
shoulders too weak
to carry the rocks up hills
again.
Broken knees bending
back
bowing to emotions
that leave me dizzy.
I'd rather be empty.
Belly no longer full
from feasting on false promises
...of tomorrow.
Leave me now, to mourn the future.
My picture, fading;
words, dissipating into yesterdays.
Visit my grave and remember,
love dies long before
it is buried.
the process of extraction series.
*some lines have been pulled from older discarded pieces.
Perpetual footpaths
tread 'cross broken glass and shattered dreams;
how many times must we rake across coals
this dying carcass of an ill-fated love scene?
For too long
have days fallen and risen,
slave to circadian rhythms of your nocturnal heart.
My skin grows sallow in the shadows;
albino wrists bleeding tears,
open veins into open books.
You read me through clouded eyes,
rose-colored cataracts
tingeing the face of our truth:
These walls are closing in.
Hairline fractures in cracked foundations;
feet straddling doorways of forever.
I fell asleep on the front porch,
left the light on for your return,
and awoke to darkness
once again.
These walls are closing in.
Skeletons dancing in the windows,
closet door left open in haste.
You dressed too fast this morning,
forgot the heart for your sleeve.
Remembered how you liked to leave...
...me hanging
by nooses
when time grows too hard to hold onto.
Fingers brittle and broken.
Words as tombs,
turned empty and cold,
holding the bones of what
we had dared to begin.
Bury my heart in the front yard.
Kiss my gravestone
with lips too tight to speak.
I'm sick of this
myth of Sisyphus,
shoulders too weak
to carry the rocks up hills
again.
Broken knees bending
back
bowing to emotions
that leave me dizzy.
I'd rather be empty.
Belly no longer full
from feasting on false promises
...of tomorrow.
Leave me now, to mourn the future.
My picture, fading;
words, dissipating into yesterdays.
Visit my grave and remember,
love dies long before
it is buried.
bangkok.belladonna
Single socket swaying from ceiling
silhouette of shadows
blinking staccato on dirty walls;
dirty mattress and
bedside table
littered with empty bottles,
cigarette burns, and
fist-fulls of crumpled bills.
She kills herself each night;
repeated stabs from nameless faces,
selling sanctity to afford a new set of wings
to carry her far away from the neon city.
Bangkok belladonna,
with midnight eyes
leaking into crater mouth
etched onto moon face
of girl child;
hips like rolling ocean
that pull tides from western shores.
Graffiti of bent coat hangers
on broken hymen,
memories of when she broke open,
tiny legs closed around fist
twisted with bloodied sheet.
There is no tourniquet
to stop the spilling of soul,
no bandage
to bind together the splitting of surface
of a murderous heart.
She weeps the tears
of her dead babies;
mourns them in shallow graves
carved into track-marked arms;
a walking tomb,
grieving in moans
faked to stifle tears
and keep the money
rolling in.
Single socket swaying from ceiling
silhouette of shadows
blinking staccato on dirty walls;
dirty mattress and
bedside table
littered with empty bottles,
cigarette burns, and
fist-fulls of crumpled bills.
She kills herself each night;
repeated stabs from nameless faces,
selling sanctity to afford a new set of wings
to carry her far away from the neon city.
Bangkok belladonna,
with midnight eyes
leaking into crater mouth
etched onto moon face
of girl child;
hips like rolling ocean
that pull tides from western shores.
Graffiti of bent coat hangers
on broken hymen,
memories of when she broke open,
tiny legs closed around fist
twisted with bloodied sheet.
There is no tourniquet
to stop the spilling of soul,
no bandage
to bind together the splitting of surface
of a murderous heart.
She weeps the tears
of her dead babies;
mourns them in shallow graves
carved into track-marked arms;
a walking tomb,
grieving in moans
faked to stifle tears
and keep the money
rolling in.
I.
In the end,
17 bodies lay contorted on the floor;
several more with minor wounds
and a young woman,
cradling a shotgun,
rocking in the corner.
Air thick with stench of smoking gun
and dying breath, heavy,
a blanket wrapping the space in silence,
save for the wailing
of a small child
still clinging to a stroller.
Young mother
laid out
slack-jawed and wide-eyed
chest blooming crimson on yellow blouse;
Security guard,
bullet to stomach, bleeding out,
light tremors quaking his body
as life slowly drains.
Fifteen others frozen in final moments,
the tell-tale mark of fate
worn on chests like a bloody badge.
II.
All she ever wanted was the kindness of a smile.
Sought out love in darkened basements,
in backseats and behind buildings;
Never good enough for the front of the line.
Became the train ride that everyone took
but never talked about,
laughed about behind hands,
in hallways,
eyes averted from face.
Name traded in circles
like she was
spread around.
Little girl
just wanted to be found
Always felt so
invisible.
III.
They raped her
on a Sunday afternoon
crowded mall, a public restroom.
Surrounded, overpowered and
backed into corner,
six hands locked arms against wall
six hands
tore shirt from chest
three bodies
pressed
as knives stabbing at soul.
Left her
crumpled and alone;
little girl
just wanted to go home;
Never felt so
invisible.
IV.
Returns with retribution.
Shotgun blasts
ringing out in crowded space;
Buckshots
ripping through flesh
and screams
and screams
and six hands
pleading for mercy
three voices
silenced by raging bullets
three bodies
dropping to floor
and many more that followed
caught in the cross-fire and madness
of a little girl
screaming to the masses:
I
AM NOT
INVISIBLE
late nights are like this...
you should know
the many ways i play
slave to your shadow
hiding in footprints and
the echoes of breath
through speakers,
boxing me into
rooms without doors;
tongue-tied at your voice.
siren
you lure me into thoughts
of forget-me-nots
pinned to lapels
i know you so well
yet
understand little
riddle me into mystery.
find me in the folds of pages.
i wait for you in the words,
to be a chapter in your book,
a line lingering on your lips;
speak me into being.
i wait,
bookmarking passages
in the story of your kingdom.
your majesty,
you should know
how many times my lines
have have worn your face,
how we've
slipped between sheets
of loose-leafed dreams.
between the lines of poems,
i wait.
unseen; and
unheard,
just a girl
intoxicated
by the elixir of your words,
stolen,
like moments we've passed,
far from the eyes
of a greedy audience.
the many ways i play
slave to your shadow
hiding in footprints and
the echoes of breath
through speakers,
boxing me into
rooms without doors;
tongue-tied at your voice.
siren
you lure me into thoughts
of forget-me-nots
pinned to lapels
i know you so well
yet
understand little
riddle me into mystery.
find me in the folds of pages.
i wait for you in the words,
to be a chapter in your book,
a line lingering on your lips;
speak me into being.
i wait,
bookmarking passages
in the story of your kingdom.
your majesty,
you should know
how many times my lines
have have worn your face,
how we've
slipped between sheets
of loose-leafed dreams.
between the lines of poems,
i wait.
unseen; and
unheard,
just a girl
intoxicated
by the elixir of your words,
stolen,
like moments we've passed,
far from the eyes
of a greedy audience.
- i be miss.abi
- reppin houston, United States
- the full info
