To hold on to the illustrious world we call home

this is not a poem about love this is not a poem about love.this is not a poem about love.this is not a poem about love.this is not a poem about love.this is not a poem about love.

To hold on to the illustrious world we call home

 

She’s grown

Fangs and a serrated tongue

A crowd roars, she listens.

Delicately paints across their hands

A red dress and etched skirt

Phonograms of a dissociated ode linger in the roots of our bodies.

 

Hey, can I ask you a question?

 

That mirror isn’t yours, right?

It’s not hers either.

You know that

There are so many

 

A gallery of worlds

You’re free to fall through and see

Or stay right by me so that we can see

Our world

Together.

 

Back to the first stanza, she’s changed, no?

It’s probably her shadow that’s done it

Done her.

And she will keep gnawing away at herself until we stop

 

So just stop right?

 

Hold yourself accountable and change nothing

A sun shower

A pathetic fallacy for your own soul.

The smell of rain clad gale

She’ll never get there again.

 

Perhaps she’s happy there

A painted world brought to her through utterance

And just as easily taken away

 

She’ll never come to stand by me

She’ll brush my hand with the same paint her world is made of

They’ll see me one day

For who I truly am.

Author's Note

i don't care.