there are too many
notches on my spine,
the kind that spiders
spin their webs inside
and you tell me are
dirty,
and i grow ivy up my arms
in shapes and patterns built
to hide the scars of a girl
screaming headfirst into a concrete wall,
speaking your name into
a pill bottle.
you are shaped like a gutter,
low to the ground and full
of ridges, far more shallow than mine,
but still filled to the brim
with all the bullshit that you
forced down my throat,
using the same strength you would
to thrust into her mouth.
there is a cigarette on the sidewalk
and a star on my right side
between a freckle
and the curve of my hip meeting flesh,
where i hide from you
and from everyone else.
once i said, i said,
"i believe the world,
and it spins for you."
but i lied,
because now i think
that i will burn in hell
for all the pretty things
you said, the ones that
buried themselves in the
nerves in the back of my head,
and will never come out.
they just keep tightening
and tightening,
until my hands shake
and my rasps sound like bullets
breaking into flesh.
Author notes
the quote in the tile is by jean paul sartre.
famous quote from "huit clos" (no exit), which translated means, "hell is other people."
A contest entry
- round one; [&my weakness is that i care too much♥] by innocence jaded.xx.
1200 points, ended January 18, 2009, 46 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
i believe the world, it spins for you...
Comments
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8.8
Amazinggg. Incredible imagery, and I love the form you write it. It's so unique and visual. Thank you for entering & welcome to the finalists♥ -
the first half made me super happy, in an importantly angsty sort of way.
to say nothing of the second half. :]
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just thought you might like to know, that when i have weird sort of in-between times, when i come on ap in a state that can only be described as blank, flat, frightened, and don't read things properly, although this is not for lack of trying, your poems are most definitely something i miss. like, really miss. i don't know if this makes sense?
it's more a feeling of, when i finally snap out of it - start paying attention to things again, and reading things again, appreciating them again - wanting to kick myself for not having read more of your work, and sooner, and with deeper insight, but at the same time being so relieved that it is, yes, it is, thank god, still there, still waiting, still just as bloody incredible as it always was, if not more.
i mean:
'there is a cigarette on the sidewalk
and a star on my right side
between a freckle
and the curve of my hip meeting flesh,
where i hide from you
and from everyone else.'
you can't possibly say that isn't brilliance.
i think i love you
-
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wow.
i feel loved.
i love you!
and i totally understand, i dont read much anymore from depression, i just gloss and write my own emo stuff.
so i feel bad.
it's blank, like that. i've had times like that.
only i get really feeling like nothing is there and stop writing too.
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