all the pretty girls
their matching bags
& expensive footwear
i am nothing but words.
words - misspelled and mangled,
& sentences wrongly constructed.
he'd like to know all about me,
so he starts picking me apart.
he scours files inside my head
for blueprints, maps and charts.
a page is too small a space,
for you to plead a lost case
& our words, too plain & trite
to aptly paint out your plight.
to my dearest friend & evil girl,
tonight we celebrate the end of the world.
we'll dine on bad food & ignore the dishes,
'to get your writing
back in sync,
cut your wrists
& bleed out the ink.'
he guts numbers with letters,
and letters with words,
as the day pushes onwards.
someday when i'm older,
i will know how to write,
to draw pictures with my words
of days that were once bright.
the summer ends not with the sweeping breeze
entangled with sun, warming up your skin
but with the raking cold pounding of rain
on a steel roof, & the howl of the wind