Bleach. Shaken, not stirred.
You dragged me to the edges of myself,
got high off the pure bliss
of gutting me.
From the inside out.
..
hours of dry heaving
tells me there's nothing left
of my insides.
You've thoroughly cleaned me out.
Yet. I still feel it.
..
The ghost of you
leaving behind traces of an unwanted
war. between us.
..
I stare at my stained clothes
at the bleach sitting beside them.
And my entire being leans towards it.
To be clean once more.
She Carries the World
She cradles the deserts, scorch marks and blisters paint her arms.
She cries out the oceans, her eyes unseeing from the salt.
She holds the forests in her palms, tree roots piercing skin and bones.
She breathes the wind, gasping wails of pain.
She bears the mountains on her shoulders, bones crushing under solid rock.
She wears the sun upon her head, her hair catching fire.
She supports the ice in her middle, her heart frozen over within her ribcage.
She leaps from star to star, her bare feet cut and bruised from foriegn cliffs.
I Just Want to Tell
I'm a smile ready to burst,
A flower ready to bud.
But nobody even asks,
Why I'm jumping on my toes,
Trying not to squeal,
Tapping the excitement out of my fingers,
Or twisting my hair into incurable knots.
I want to shout my happiness to the world,
But nobody asks,
They're too busy,
Posting pictures of themselves on the internet,
Ignoring reality,
Breezing through life without a care.
The Good Child
Getting up before the dawn. Being the alarm on everyone's door. I don't want any pity, this is just what I do. Make lunches for little sisters and parents. Start cooking the eggs for breakfast, gulp down a bowl of cereal as the eggs are flipped. Send my groggy sisters back to the room to fix their backwards clothes. Run through the house, pick up random things off the floor hairbrushes, paper plates, toys, schoolwork, papers, and clothes. The sun starts to rise, get my sisters' shoes on, their bags together, their hair brushed, ignore their glares, because they had to find matching socks, make sure my parents' work bags are in the right place, for when they hurry out the door, get their coffee made, remind them of the grocery list, look down at myself, and realize my PJs aren't going to make the right fashion statement at school. Ten minutes before the bus arrives, I yank on jeans and a cute shirt, run my fingers through my hair, look for my socks, throw my books in my bag, remember to give out my sisters' lunches. Rush out the door, catch my breath, run through my homework assignments in my head, hoping I didn't leave any on my bed. Ready to do this all again, for the whole school year, staying up late, getting up early, only 'thank you's I get are quick, and sometimes forgotten, but I don't mind, really, because I'm the good child, ready to face another day.