oleanderpowder

Perched.
By Miranda Blankenship

Some days I sit here, unearthly as hell...
working on getting over it.
The way my cards were dealt.
Not like I have so much to bitch about,
just everything in the world.

Can't it stand to wait another day?
You're pulling me in, pulling me on, pulling me down.
In front of the train tracks, going northbound.
I'm caught in the tracks.
Feet stumbled down.
Whispering nothingness as a sweet wind
begins to caress me now.

Pushing away...
it's breaking my heart.
When you look at me,
with those eyes,
you say to me,
in black and white...
TOO LATE.

People say it's never too late.
Even if you've sold your heart to a man
who died years ago.
Even if your soul bleeds for days on end,
gasping for some kind of conciousness.
Unconciouss now, eyes closed on death.
Perching, I am left.
Fighting for the sensations of
JUST NOT GIVING A FUCK...
about...
about anything.
Will it ever change?
Will I ever change?
Smack... punch... brutality.
They say ice preserves...
but it also breaks......


My Heart.

To Sylvia Plath... a loved one I never met.