Poetry/Short Stories

Eating clementines underneath the pavilion,

We hold hands and make orange juice,

Like the birds once did behind the willow tree,

Even though we never spoke

The bees watch my flower shrivel,

To a brittle heap of straw,

The poor plant I never watered,

And never mourned its loss

Blood orange, orange blood,

Never tasted from a straw,

So I drink the liquid clean,

Tear my teeth through flesh and pulp

Holding hands, we don't stop,

I never learned how to let go,

And all the things I never did,

I'll never do

May the bones of my skeletal system,

Break underneath the topsoil,

For every flower they planted were sharp slivers of steel,

Oh, I never stood a chance,

Living in an ivory glass,

Against stones shaped like ten twisted fingers,

May my blood run like rivers,

That they all want to drink,

After guzzling the simmering flesh,

And a drop of caffeine,

On their tickled pink tongues,

Just to please them,

And keep them awake for the slaughter,

So if blade cuts the string before,

I've paid my dues,

Point the blame on the people with scissors,

Not all,

But the hands of the crook tainted crimson,

Who carved out the letters,

Of my sacred name

There is no gold at the end of the rainbow,

Trailing misty hope on hill-lined streets,

And those who will never learn to swim,

Can only drown in watercolor dreams,

But the crows fly circles around her heart,

To peck at decaying fantasies,

She was young, but oh so average,

Now she’s floating in the deep,

Her hope is a corpse leaving passions to rot,

And her dreams buried under the sand,

A death deeper than skin and delicate flesh,

Three months gone, and the grave it still stands,

Her eyes were once blue like the curious tides,

Or an ocean whose waters appealing,

But now they look as if something has died,

And I couldn’t help stop the bleeding,

Here lies,

the aspirations of a girl I once knew