Thursday, February 23, 2012

Death Has a Smell

Death has a smell
It dwelled between his fingers
In the toxic smoke resembling his breath
And out of his gaping wounds
Infected and bleeding onto my skin seeping dreams
Dreams leaking from glands built from baby dolls and tea parties

His hands were pinecones
Taking my skin as they pulled down my side
Rejected by the forest
Forsaken by nature
And what once harbored seeds for the ground
Is planting his destruction inside of my womb

His eyes
They stay with me
Speaking my name
In hoarse painful tones

Justice found disgust in his eyes
Turned a back to them
In the form of empty words
Buried under the tortured thought
Words remain… useless…

Sounds paint sympathy lightly
On heavy eyes crushing
The second finishing what the first left behind
They lay on my chest
Buried under my skin
Making their way to my heart

My perspective floated
Years have pushed me back… slowly
What am I seeing
After time

Floating, I saw his hands digging into my thighs
They broke like branches
And he tore my skin where he left depravity

The courage of a soldier
The bravery of martyrs
Begged fear to be cast aside
To look in those eyes
Laying frozen
Time had not healed my wounds
Time left all things behind
Moving selfishly
Telling me I could pick up the pieces
If my heart ever came to mean that much to me

A phantom feeling
Taking years of pictures of the world
And painting them over
Darker and out of control
Always dangerously balancing between
I can control this…
And I can not control anything…
Constantly searching for
A point

The point ends with the words
Bastard remains quaint
Son of a bitch takes your spotlight and shifts
No, he will burn under spotlight
Skin dripping

Rape has been turned into poetry

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