Scribbled Thoughts

20:95

Blunt scissors hack

open a wound in the

back of your neck, exposing

white insides and betrayal.

The toy he left behind,

as well as me,

was turned limp and

spineless by years of

his abuse, his love.

One minute he’d lick

you tenderly, resting on

you like a pillow,

carry you wherever

he deemed fit to go.

Then he’d turn, teeth

ripping fabric and

throwing white stuffing

like confetti, littering

the air and floor.

Now, years later, I

force new insides into

your thinned skin,

plumping you up,

giving you strength to

stand again on legs

long weak and unstable.

Do you feel grateful,

as I sew back up the wound?

Or have I erased the last

trace of him left, making

him more dead than ever?

You are strong now,

no longer his toy,

and part of me hates

you for it.

This one’s more of a rant than a poem

---

20:94

I don’t know how

they’re getting in,

he smiled, all good natured.

They smirked back, glints

of victory and deceit

claiming the street and

its residents. No one

new was allowed to

settle here, who didn’t

do what they wanted,

who didn’t thank them

for their inconsideration.

Their loud arguments,

music, banging is the

rhythm of existence. If

you don’t praise it, you

are Satan. Try and protect

yourself and have a

brick through your dreams,

hope, security.

I don’t know how

they’re getting in.

They’ll always get in.

You cannot win.

Accept it,

and perish.