Anchors

It's a short spoken word-ish piece about someone who will never read it. Original, huh?

It's two A.M.,

I'm fighting to steal my pulse back from the echo of a nightmare,

You broke me out a jail cell in the middle of the desert, 

Then pushed me out of the car, whispering "I don't love you."

You said "I miss you." 

I want to believe you, but I stopped trusting people when they told me the clouds were not the ceiling,

That my legs were not anchors pushing me into inches of sand and dead coral,

That I wouldn't drown when my tank ran out.

I know you're just trying to pull me to the surface,

But I can't help but be scared of The Bends-

Scared that my skull will burst into two even pieces in the fingers of the sun,

Plastering itself symmetrically on the surface of the sky.

I'm not trying to worry you,

I just need some time to cough up all this brine,

To dry out my lungs before I can really start breathing again.

When I do, I swear the first thing I breathe will be your scent,

Because I'd drink nothing but you breath if you asked me;

Eat nothing but the salt off your skin,

So stop hinting and kiss me against the ice box,

Because I know the frying pan is better than the fire, 

But you really don't have to get burned.

Reviews

[Emily B]

you are a brilliant poet