like neon, iron, she bites her lips so hard they bleed; and the blood on her tongue reminds her of so much more than dying.
it's electricity and the arc of the sun, pulled through the sky by a god in his chariot.
it's opening her eyes one morning and not seeing apollo there.
[the feelings she can't remember, because she's suffocated them in layers of smoke and vodka.]
that's what dying is, Riley tells her.
and she pulls at her hair and her skin because she can't find the courage to say:
no.
this is alive.
what does he know anyway? the riot child in her asks, and the answer is always the same; but she can't find it in the haze.
it's easier to give in; not give up, not surrender, she thinks, but to let it in. soak in the sensations she still can,
not go numb.
that's the only death she knows.
& that's want she wants to forget.
Author notes
for AppleJuiceMemories. happy late birthday, Ivy! [even if this isn't a happy poem.]
In a list
thoughts? honesty, please.
Comments
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"and she pulls at her hair and her skin because she can't find the courage to say:
no.
this is alive."
--holyshit. omg. -
all of it..
brilliant.
without fail.
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O.M.G.
i love it.
you are amazing.
im jealous.
nuff said.
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thanks! you're amazing too.
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i love my birthday present.
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