She is the torn pages of her own history book and what her native tongue forgot too speak years ago, a head on collision caused by her parents driving to fast on a dirt road just to feel whole.
Drenched in all the words she couldn’t call herself,
Covered in her own mistakes as she drips self esteem from her fingertips,
She believes that she is undeserving to breath as her future is adducted by her past.
She is being raised by street light instead of her father, the only language he spoke were liquor stores on a Sunday afternoon, maybe that’s why she allows stranger to come inside her by vaguely permitting them to spread her leg apart like the torn pages that she is, they have become too thirsty to pour water into her empty glass,
watching her became as transparent as broken windows after a fire,
they couldn’t love her but appreciated how she gifted them by allowing them in between her thighs.
People spray painted her lifestyle onto mural walls, subjected to everyone’s stares but never to be taken ownership for.
Looked over because to some graffiti is not an art by vandalism, the same way her edges are subdue to trans passers destroying the property of her body as she gives in to these invasion,
And when rain falls it hits her harder than Gunshots during a war,
Missiles targeted to set her Islands of safety on fire,
Most days she grows tired of living in shambles.
Depression came when she willingly gives up her bare skin,
Hoping she can be bared with.
To her it is love that only last moments,
And having single moments of love was almost good enough.
Selling her dreams to anyone willing to purchase them as the consequences of forgotten comdoms become evident inside her.
She takes the liberty by removing a mistake and she now carries a graveyard in her womb,
Refusing to allow her seed to be the same accident her parents tried to turn into a purpose.
Sometimes she felt that she grew up in a crippled land,
The only memory she has is her runaway dad,
Nothing changed besides the date on the calendars,
Maybe it too much to ask her tears not to fall over her.
Syringes made her feel whole,
Feeding the hunger to be loved in her soul.
Sniffed the white powder til her white bones turn into powder and she numbs herself like this,
Accustomed to circumstance, detesting the occupant that she is.
She has insecurities she traps under her eyes
While she gives away her pieces of her lopsided smile.
A confidence below zero maybe that’s why she is cold when you touch her. I’m able to smell all the suicide letters she burnt on her skin and I can see all the colours in her occasional hallucinations.
She falls asleep to the lalaby sung by needles and dirty ashtrays.
In her dreams
She runs away from the sun as she chases the wind hoping it would lead her to all her dreams been held hostage by oblivion but soon she is captured by tiresome as she falls away into relinquishments.
Maybe some day the world will spare her and she will be enough.
Her life bleeds a painful type of unchanged disappointments, using the same band aid to heal the wounds beneath her flesh into a new change, but this time something magical happened…
Change occurred when she fell asleep and until today she has yet to awaken.