Barbed wire tracings exploded in cherry works on my skin
connecting the clockwork freckles scabbing over yesterday.
Grenades of plasma shades and sepia rainbows denoted
cross-work stitches rusted grey, that wove my hips together.
Experimental languages dot the Is of frozen lemonade
words, coated like cough syrup, sicky sweet but unreal.
Ink glitters my finger beds, and retro flashing lights
illuminate the pockmarks hiding in the dusty cobwebs.
My pen exploded and poetic blood splattered
and seeped into toxic veins- ethanol poisoning.
I never knew it was possible to overdose on words,
paper thin wings and gasoline doused feathers, but it is.
My heart is still beating sulfur Vodka and scotch tape
drugs into my lining, and I don't even drink.
My ribs breathe the lost jewelery boxes of Russian Princesses
, Antastasia's broken lyrics, gnarled and pruned like her innocence.
I used to be a little girl who painted ugly cobblestones
with sequins and twigs,and leaves - abstract metaphors.
Once i painted with passionate brilliant strokes of nothing
scratches of crayon shavings became my wing thin paper.
I'm not little anymore- but its questionable whether I'm
still defined as a girl- my eyes feel like skeletons when I breathe.
Air whistles through the brittle evanescent lungs, that leaked
hot balloons to crying babies, and was left with nothing.
If overdosing is about numbing- why does it feell like everything's broken?
Words flooded my system but I'm still suffocating.
Honorable mention
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