She sits among the living,
and she cries,
heavy crimson tears;
frothing rose juice.
She cannot breathe.
Her arms bleed for the world,
and all of its pain,
all of its agony.
And all of the pathetic mortals
who roam within its dark,
conformist walls.
She wishes so ferociously
that she could be somewhere else.
This world is not hers;
she does not belong in a place
so bright, so full of love and color.
A world so full of fake.
The young man smiles;
genuine, and pleading murder.
But he might kill himself first.
The little girl dies with bruises on her arms,
because her teacher never said a word.
No one will ever see
that she is bruised between her legs, too.
The daughter drives six hours
to see Mom and Dad;
to eat their food,
and pretend to laugh at their racist jokes.
The man’s firm handshake and fancy tie
hide the panties under his desk,
and the pack of Trojans in his drawer.
His wife pretends not to smell
the whiskey on his breath,
or see the lipstick on his collar.
They will make love together;
wild sex, just to prove
that there is still a spark,
that they are still good enough
for each other.
But denial will not save them.
The spark between them will start a fire.
And they will scorch.
Or they will go crazy, like her.
She is crazy because she sees the world,
and all of its lies;
its thick, shameful soup.
And it is unbearable.
It makes her want to die.
It makes her shred her own skin,
and smirk as red beauty
drizzles down her arm.
It makes her suck the tequila,
the beer, the whiskey;
like a bee in honey bliss.
It makes her curse,
like the trash she is,
like the trash all around her.
It makes her hear the words of her childhood;
the harsh words that she lived by,
because Mommy was always right.
It makes her feel again,
the sharp hand across her face,
the cold grip around her neck,
the hard stairs beneath her body,
and the tug on her hair.
It makes her mourn for years as a victim.
It puts an evil gleam in her eye
when she knows it is a mistake,
but she takes her pants off anyway.
Because finally she can use him.
Like he used her.
And it will be fun,
at least until it is over.
Then it will burn,
and she will scorch.
And she will realize that no one is brave.
She and him will die together.
Two naked fools,
madly in love;
madly in lust.
Two strangers making love,
because that is what they’re supposed to do.
That is what they want to do.
And desires should never be ignored.
But she knows nothing about desires,
or the world,
or man.
She just sits among the living,
crying for all of the chaos she does not know.
Cutting, drinking, screwing;
for all of the pain out there.
For every victim who ever was a victim.
For every beautiful woman
that she will ever fall in love with.
For every song she ever wrote,
and deleted,
because it meant nothing.
For all of the time she spent
writing this worthless poem,
which is not really a poem at all,
but is a message to the victim of these words:
Do not love me.
Do not trust me.
When you turn your back,
I will not be dead.
When you turn your back,
I will be set free.
The coward will breathe once again.