your lips pink like budding roses,
skin soft and smooth like a newborn rabbit,
eyes clear like a running stream,
you reek of life.
you encapsulate spring
and everything it stands for:
vivid beauty and unrelenting growth,
and you can't help but to
be seen and loved and worshiped as you are
and i don't blame you for it.
but all the while
my feet drag through the mud as i
stagger behind,
a desiccated corpse compared to your willowy grace.
my cheeks are sickly sunken and yellowed
and gray mold creeps over my gums.
i open my mouth to scream but
my teeth are blackened and falling out.
my poor decaying fingers stretch out to yours,
oh so thin and lithe and smooth
and reminding me that i am nothing like you.
you're everything my rotting skin and my rank stench
could never dream to be.
you're what flows through the world
as i lurch behind,
hoping to catch and hold onto
just a bit of your beauty,
a bit of your light
despite how it so agonizingly continues to
pierce my fetid flesh.
and as you stand in front of the mirror and criticize
your imperceivable (arguably nonexistent) flaws
while i wither here beside you,
metaphorically paling in comparison
to your carved ivory skin
i begin to notice that the grave i continue to dig for myself
feels a hell of a lot deeper than six feet.
YOU ARE READING
Dregs
PoetryDregs: the most worthless part or parts of something. This is a collection of poetry I've written over the last few years as I try to figure out who I am, what I want, and how to get it without killing myself in the process. I'll put trigger warning...
