1/6/2018 Poetry by Alexandria HeathTwo what good is a day when I see absence of everything and nothing of covered eyes and ears when I feel skin cold and hard warm and soft when i feel the black rub my legs and light shatter on my chest an ocean and dirt what good is a day when I stay still and silent when I stay silky and poisonous hitting and celebrating what good is a day when I am back and forward when I have no fingerprints and my hands over my mouth Disillusion And how can I ever be sure that a hand is what I want I flip questions over and over in my mind until nothing but dirt remains but one question sticks over and over in my head like tiny pieces of rice on my skin-how can I be sure? That this is what I want. I want the sun and the moon and the stars and all I get is sweating skin in return. It seems so up in the air to stick to one thing when I consider myself to be a million. A million of nothing. A million of everything and how can a million of something stick to one thing? I think I've ruined certain parts of me like my mind, my hands, and my hips. They don't belong to me anymore. I've given them away to everyone like little gift boxes I'd give to my friends on Christmas when I was twelve. Twelve reminds of white and clear transparent colors. It reminds me of definition. I remember when I used to divide my body into sections for myself. But now I cut myself into little pieces to give away to anyone who mutters my name who whispers back to what I say. I've held too many people. I've touched too many fingertips. A Memory I wish I had known that my tears would eventually pool in the same place no matter where I am and never fail to baptize my body of your words and hands I wish I had known that purity isn't subjective and that because you placed your fingertips on my thighs I’d eventually grow a love for water and its ability to make me forget who I am and to cleanse me of the things I've allowed to shatter me like the windows of an abandoned house I wish I had known that touches leave no stains that can't be expunged and if they do it's just like a tattoo that fades with every moment that I move and every arm that I embrace that doesn't ask me for something that I can choose to rip the skin from the parts of me that you've caressed even if those parts of me are pieces of my brain That pain comes and goes like the clouds above my head and that you can look out for storms but you should really watch out for the ones that offer you gentle rain If I could I'd tell me that you’ll learn to love from lack and hunger and thirst And because of this you'll learn to appreciate every morsel and drop of hydrogen and oxygen that you receive That you'll learn to sustain yourself and forage for every piece of sustenance that's dropped on the ground How to smell it from a drunken stare across the room To open your mouth for a body when someone's ripped out your throat And even though I never imposed my own silence that I can still make people feel me like the holiness I never seemed to have but with every opportunity you had you'd rub it against my chest to remind me that I allowed my hips to be a vacant hotel for anyone who knocked at 3 in the morning but only bc I needed the image of myself that you stole But I wish I had known that I can also find that image if I stare in the mirror long enough that by just being right where I am I'm embracing the flames of hell that only exist in the form of memories And that the real devils aren’t even found in the pages of the Bible but you can find them on the trails their feet have hammered out on your mind In the faces you see in your dreams And on the palms of every hand you place in yours after theirs leaves ![]() Bio: Alexandria is a writer and student from the South. She began writing as a way to come to terms with mental illness and trauma. She loves museums, cats, and psychology. Comments are closed.
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