Your teeth bite. Maul at the root of the bone-cord that ties the nape of my neck to the center of my back. Reverberating. Spasm-shock, tumbling down the staircase of my spine. It is earthquake-licked tectonics. I am continents shifting. I am eruption. Spinal-fluid vomit. I am corruption. Porcelain-fanged, fissure-made. Osteo-scaffolding, cracking. You, convulsion-crescendo. Break me down, shattered. I am devoured. I am unknitting. Laceration-itch wounded. I am heartstring, smarting. Fever-craze, deafening. And my bony sutures are unthreading in conniption-fit torrents. And when the edges fray it is skeleton-splintered. Slivers of want, ricocheting from arteries to heart. Calcium needles. Stab and hold. Stab and hold. Pin me down, wayward. Pin me down, unsettled.
Tear in my heart
Frayed edges, like the pages torn from a careworn book, who's spine was folded once too many times. That was the state of my heart.
Once man's greatest treasure, broken beyond measure.
Ripped, scratched, like the surface of a schoolboy's desk, imbued with the chalked markings of my strife, etched upon my soul, like never to wholly heal.
I stitched you up with cotton and feather, put you together like the jigsaw of my heart. My greatest prize? You tore mine apart.
Where is my needle and thread? May someone sew me up like your much abused teddy bear? I think I may be slightly in need of some tender loving care.
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Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk
Love is blind
His hands entangled in her luscious coiled locks — the blade tears through the first layer of skin ripping through her white blouse now stained red. She does not let us a scream because she is already incapacitated from the chloroform.
He wipes his blade against her shirt the metal glimmering in the moonlit night. Her lifeless body slumps over and hits the ground. He resumes his jog out of the dank alley.
When he reaches his apartment, he can see Joe; she is smoking a cigarette, her hand searching for her lighter her white walking stick sits next to her.
”hi baby.” she says, smoke billowing out her nose.
”How did you know it was me?” he seats himself next to her.
”Why do you smell like that?” her brows furrow.
”Like what babe?”
”I cut myself on my run, I'm fine baby” he forgot about the knife in his pocket.
”I'm going in for a shower,” he heads for the door.
She continues smoking on the front porch listening as sirens pass her a lot of them like it was something serious happening.
The Art of “Love”
Write your lies on my pages,
Pour your truths out to me.
Scribble notes of adoration,
Draw lines of tainted ink.
Decorate my scars with strokes
of red and blue and green.
Paint over my flaws with hues
of darling uncertainty.
Mold me into some twisted sculpture
of your perfect apathy.
Rip and tear me into a collage
of my falsified fantasy.