Nailbeds

I try to go for that disheveled look
The just got out of bed look
Like I don’t even have to try
I look like a heroin addict

I can smell scrambled eggs 
Lingering on a clean pan
Because I never put the right force
Into my feeble hands onto damp sponge

I can’t remember the last time
I shaved my underarms but it’s intentional
I want to raise my arms and scream at the cat callers
“Stop honking at me because I like wearing skirts”

Candles can burn down my legs
As long as the wick stands strong 
Against the capabilities of a girl who can’t breathe
Unless she writes lists for the rest of her life

Filling out paperwork and scratching my knees
Are possibly the things I do best
But without my own pen the fringe on my tongue
Unravels into nothing

My vocal chords have eradicated due to a lack of use 
The things I have to say aren’t quite humane enough for human ears
They contain a darkness that only few can handle
Like knives through paperback books

Good byes and introductions makes the pale on my legs illuminate
Shyness will linger in my hair even after the inners of dopemine receptors 
Because when it’s over and done
Staring at the point where wall meets ceiling is no longer cutting it

Reviews

[Christoph]

Turbulent blend of confidence and self-loathing, which is to say: you are definitely a writer.