Tuesday, August 30, 2016
break your light on my window
show me that hell is empty
even if the devils are here
with eyes closed and
black-and-white old films
and family vacations
to the middle east
and wince at the same time
in a room that was once vibrant
with laughter, red dresses, and sweet summerwine
and now I can’t tell if it’s dirt
or a shadow on your face
for hours the faces morphed into clouds
shepherds guided ghostly sheep on ancient paths
and i couldn't take my eyes off
anything at all
“you are not alone
even the most offensive shadow
was made by light,”
a voice suggested
and I laughed
“shadows don’t offend me,
that don’t do their job”
Saturday, August 6, 2016
She always has the same look on her face,
and I distrusted her because of that.
But I guess most of the things she does are eerie,
so maybe it’s not her face’s fault.
She doodles on everything,
but draws the same exact picture
of a cat with a skull mask.
She balances on one foot
effortlessly like a bird,
weightless in the wind,
upheld by nothing but the stillness in the air.
She never raises the volume of her voice,
or even changes the pitch of it.
the rumor that goes around is that she’s a robot.
But I have a different idea:
I think she was born a girl,
and she slowly let herself become mechanical,
while the world replaced
her bones with steal,
her skin with a shell,
her heart with a watch
and her eyes with mirrors.
And then one day,
she painted her fingernails blue,
as the world told her it was too close to cobalt.