Death Tastes Beautiful
You kiss like sin and taste like heaven. I'm aware of the poison slowly leaking from your tongue to my veins, but it almost has a hint of cinnamon to it. A blast of peppermint covers the bitter taste of my last moments. I knew death was beautiful I just didn't expect the sex to drip from its invitation. Your taste has a certain fluidity in seeping toxins into my soul. This most beautiful darkness I've never seen other than coming from your lips steals my breath in the most lively death; all I can think is: don't stop.
It wasn’t a waste of breath, I promise.
You told me that to sacrifice is not always to be brave, but sometimes means simply that you've given in. You also told me I'm better than just giving in, better than just anything. I heard you when you said I am not just me, but I am myself. That it is so beautiful to be myself. I shrugged your words off as I do my own; as if the time you just gave me was insignificant. It wasn't.
She was always more beautiful the next day than she was the one before. Not because she wasn't stunning, but because each day she gained more of herself for people to fall in love with. Each memory made, was another for her to tell. I fell in love all over, every moment she shared from her day. Another day I got to love her was more beauty added to her, because I got to see another day worth of her loving me back. And my, she had a way of making you shine with the special way she loved. I know that love is often spoken of, but happiness is contagious right? I think people just want to make others feel how they feel by sharing their happiness; and my happiness was her.
Daydreaming of daydreams
I wonder if people ever think of me.
Not in a sense of hatred
Or with true knowledge of anything concerning me.
No, I just wonder if they passed me by,
Saw me acting a fool,
And wanted to join in.
I wonder if I smiled at them,
And they wanted to see it again.
I wonder all of this, knowing it to not be.
I wonder this,
But for a different me.
For the me I was supposed to be.
I would wait.
If you said you wanted time,
You would get it.
I would give you time
On a maybe,
A probable no;
And that terrifies me.
I would wait,
But I know there is no reason to.
Yet I still hang on
To every minute you may need
So I can give all of it to you
Just in case time is what you need for us.
(Tw: the world we live in) Next Exit: Planet Safety. Arrival Time: To Be Determined
Where are we safe? We go out for a breather just for a man to come and steal our breath in the worst way. We lay in bed to relax from a long day, but a man breaks into our home and makes us feel that no amount of locks will keep us safe. We say no, just for them to scream yes. We wear extra clothing just for them to tear it. We don't go out alone, just for a man's gun to point at those with you. We run just to be tripped. We trust family, just for a man to make us always keep our distance after just a moment alone with him. We expected the police to help us, just for one of them to be arrested for crime they are meant to fight against.
Where are we safe when a man can turn the tables in an instant? Where are we safe when a man expects a fight so he comes prepared? Where are we safe when we still exist in a world of men that get believed with each lie swirling around their tongues when a survivor gets turned into a "whore"? Where are we safe when we are told to watch what we dress, when the most amount of coverage possible can lead to us being found dead a week later? Where are we safe? Because it sure as hell isn't in this world.
It may not be all men doing it, but it's almost all women having it happen to them.
I imagine a world where writers lose their words. Each time they feel, each time they don't have a good outcome for a piece, each time they go to pick up a pen. I imagine losing the ability to swirl around letters to combine our perfect expression. Perfect, because what we feel is described only as we want to describe it.
I imagine this world because I was lost in it for an excruciating amount of time. Words have been lost on me more often than I have almost found myself.
You aren't a writer because you can make a perfect piece. You aren't a writer because you want others to read your work. You're a writer because you have words to let out, and you can write those words down.
Express yourself in each word you thought you lost. The words are still in you. Words are not lost on anyone, they just get tangled up with the wrong ones sometimes. Write to clear the traffic jam in your mind. Then keep writing.