heads can't be wrapped round hearts so you untie yours
but it's hanging loose off of her shoulders now, and the girl doesn't even know she's carrying it. she can't feel it over the yellow backpack and red fishing rod. you haven't told her you can't catch anything good with those hands of yours. she tells you that she'll teach you
and you can't fathom how it got there in the first place
children don't go making crowns out of organs but with the dandelions growing by the back fence and when has love ever been so in reach?
and
why is it that her words feel like two hearts beating twice as fast in a birds chest. hummin like its mama came home with worm food
you're black bird and there's a marble water bath in the park that no one uses. more there to tell you your place is with the worms
I'm not sure you notice but her father and his friends look at you as you cross the street over to the towns convenience store.
and their eyes linger as you pull money from your pocket to buy three ring pops.
Two of which will end up on his daughters hand later in the evening, when she hides from home at six and ends up in the black girls garden.
Isn't all of this so played out? We've done this story before.
Girl pristine with girl dirt vulnerable, girl beautiful and girl ugly. girl angel and demon–deemed angel by demon girl.
Girl this isn't love.
and you aren't God.
you can't turn a man, or woman round for that matter
and your stomachs not bubbly coz of the way her shoulders soft
just never been so close to something you couldn't touch before
so when she gets into that fishing boat and takes your heart in hand and gets her sticky fingers round it with red gummy print on pink flesh–it's been moving like that for four days now and nothing can quell it but death and–
when she ties it around her neck twice and promises that it'll never fall off again
don't be fooled.
you know better than to trust a promise like, I won't do anything stupid I swear, and I'll be home before eight and the skies blue cause it's my favourite and I love you higher than trees to climb
you only feel this way coz
she's found something that isn't hers
wrote her name on it with blue marker and brown blood
you got dandelions where something raw and beating should be and
this doesn't make you natural or closer to earth
less human. more green.
more sick
she's killing you
and you can't even feel it
nothing good grows from death.
and organs don't go round heads.
keep them in your body where no one can bend them
—
errraaahh!
when will this end?
each time I think I've found an end point my mind turns on me and I'm suddenly exhausted (over nothing) by thoughts and confused (beyond something) by the jumbling of them and I just idk man
really tired of this poetry thing
really want to experiment outside of it
really want to take advantage of this odd mood boost, this more talkative (well kinda) and self appreciating tam
so hey,
if u or a loved one know where this is going or if ya got any suggestions hmu, coz I'm crumblin here.
also? should this be a short story
