She once talked to the girl in the mirror,
while thinking if tattooing her first name
on my limbs could make any difference.
If insecurities pain a work of art,
what will happen to the banana
peel-skin that carves the ocean waves
that will reflect on evey gaze of compliments,
indulgent ears starving its own just to hear
affirmations,
not compliments.
She can't stop drowning herself
with verbal stifles of lamentation
to which the whining clouds created
a full set of tears, one falling to the caves
of your unblurred chin, and one that
evaporates to the word 'I'm ok'.
Those naked emotions enter thru
a phase of sadness, to which
the darkness becomes an escape
to the resentment of those
people filled with hollowness
of epicaricacy which ushers
you to slowly
dig your own grave
in 3 days of desolation, and
breakdowns.
Silence may be a first aid
treatment to the sullen aches,
my open gashes inking each
drop of blood unto
the punctures of letters
i've sent to the unfamiliar voices
of the numb bodies of this holy land.
Solitude is that one peculiar person
you see on 'people you may know' on Facebook,
cause Dorothy and I knew solitude as a mutual friend.
I once thought if that boys arms were actually
mountains that i would cross, condensed in the milky bath
of changes and i was just a surveiler of mars' quakes on
Iceland. What if dreams were really true? In a way
that facts hurt so much more than opinions, a contrast of
black and white mixing into the most depressed gray i've ever
seen like the mountains condensed in the milky bath, to which
i climb on everyday.
-'Hello, friend.' Like every stranger would say.
©sarah_
J