It is a tragedy of split screens.
You collect love songs
for a girl who’s never cared for what they say,
Sweaty beneath your shirt they’d come
close to how you felt.
But the truth is,
she is mad as she is deaf.
And has been smiling at your fate:
Cupids and apparitions of their taste.
You have looked at yourself. Her ruins
you’ve injected into your arm. And you speak of
her like she’s no less of a damned.
She’d look at you. Her soul confused in pretenses. But understands
the death of small things inside your fragile heart.
In time you’ll take her to the strange room.
So the both of you can watch– perhaps celebrate with beer after–
It’s the autopsy of what you could have had.
And if you’re afraid of what your head will do to you after that,
take the cigarette from her mouth.
Burn the lips you couldn’t touch.
She’d let you.
Because she, too, is afraid.
To be forgotten by a strange one.
Mirasol: I have now read several of your pieces.
You are right up there with the best of them. You possess a subtle yet biting edge to the subjects in your verses…Like a Fiona Apple kind of girl! Bravo!!