Sta.sh
pretending is something
you can only do for so long.
i am tired of pretending.
i wish the world knew
how sick i am of it already.
the days are long, quiet,
boiling sunshine scars
flesh like cigarette burns.
wind whistles like a
mockingbird that's finally
gotten his own song but
is too shy to sing it,
trees rustle and leaves
muffle in the cacophony
of the world's perpetually
profuse state of sad.
pencil tips snap, crack like
the bones of lost brethren,
scorned even through the
haven we used to call home.
the words etched fluidly
in my veins, ink spewed
blue before oxidation
has repercussions only
when there's affirmation.
i wish you knew how badly
this pretending makes me
feel, strangled by the
dull touch of lead in
the lungs of the breathless,
tears of the hopeless
stain mattresses of
an effervescent childhood.
we cannot hope any longer.
we can only pray that
the pretending will stop
and that you'll look
at the spattered pieces
of notebook sheets
ever so slightly littering
the ground you scuff
your sneakers upon, the
trees' foliage is long
gone, but the colors have
left even longer, i'm tired
of acting like our sepia-
toned sun never set, and
that this is just a game,
will it be funny when
i'm distorted back to
a normal perception?
as i hear the last chime
before another night wasted,
i wallow in what-ifs and
hope that i'll escape it.
this madness is just
temporary but the angry
will be forever unless
someone puts a stop to it.
i see no bells strewn
generously across my
emblazoned chest of feelings.
my heart is so far up my
sleeve you can no longer
hear it ringing. why
don't you give it a call?
why don't you try to give
enough damns and love
to save me? but it's not
worth it, the saving's
been done, it's the proving
that lacks its defense.
pretending is something
you've always been good at,
but you're not good anymore.
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