Dear dorothy,
aka Clementine,
aka the doe-eyed girl who'd
pull out her left out hair strands,
I see you as a sundew guilt hushed
by her neighboring wars as
her cathartic poison which she calls
tears is present in each second.
You sold the bathroom cracks
wispy hair, mental breakdowns and shedded
membrane of your warped figures and
crooked silhouettes.
I call you 'Venus flytrap'
from the next-door, hand-made,
baked galaxy.
You call food 'comfort' ,
you call friends 'theraphy' ,
but you'd rather resort to isolation,
they think your solitude as a perception
of your lingering insomnia, one thought
awake while the other one dreams of melancholy.
Just one 'Hi' and that will end to a single
'goodbye'.
After that 1-minute postponed
continuation of love felt like a
century of an era of boys
thinking you are the ranch to
their dressings, you'd then say
'I don't love you anymore'
to the longing boy who's waiting
for that reply, but i guess by that
you're just lying that you don't miss
his autumn scented disposition
you once called 'A god'
Perhaps love is always the song
i would get lost in.
Oh, dear dorothy, if i could tell one
more thing about you it would be
how identical eyes collapsed in another world
of Unrequited Love's 100th
commandment: 'Never Trust
Someone' paper shredded thru your teeth
like a wolf being afraid he's
gonna be eaten by a singular sheep.
Dorothy, dorothy, that one
girl who never got the time to wear her
contact lenses of naiveness.
-Sarah
©sarah_
J