burned bridges.

I am not who I once was

all my poetry seems to hit that resounding note

maybe, I can’t get past the fact

I have murdered my old self, and no one notices

or that I love watching bridges burn

the charred remains of the ‘glory days’

a ghost wandering these hallowed grounds,

why do I live in nostalgia?

why do I wish for the past?

when I can recall each plunge of my weapon

and burying this part of me in the back of my mind

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innocence.

Her hands have a slight tremor. “Stop that; I am in control,” she whispers to them. They have words written in pen–smudging on the ends–all over them. People tell her the ink will poison her, and she just laughs.

Her eyes are held open by mascara and cups of coffee. No cream, no sugar, she likes the bitterness.

She hums something under her breath. A song from some distant memory. That Ben Rector song that made her smile and cry at the same time.

She’s been heartbroken, but the broken heart is fixed with a little tape and glitter glue.

Her taste is eclectic; never fit into a box. Her room is littered with pictures of old memories; movie tickets, polaroids, letters, journals, and glass figurines. Her stuffed animals lined up on a shelf, and she kisses their cheeks when their eyes droop.

Maybe, she never grew up. She got taller, wears makeup, smiles when she’s told, strives for better grades, fell for boys, and felt her friends maturing day by day.

But–she would still hug the tree in the front yard, or dance along to her favorite songs when everyone else told her to stop.

She watched the city the other day. She drove her mother around, and she realized how alone she felt now.

So many people were gone; some by choice, and some because life is full of chapters. It seemed the town’s population of kindred spirits dwindled daily.

And, tears blurred her vision as she sped along the highway.

Growing up wasn’t what she always expected it would be…maybe she never would be everything they wanted. Maybe, she would always push boundaries, and always get cut from pushing the envelope too much.

That was alright. And, maybe people would keep leaving, because of college, jobs, and responsibility. And, maybe new people would appear and they’d make unforgettable memories together as well.

So, she still hummed the Ben Rector song, and tapped her trembling fingers to the piano playing in her mind, and tried to think of a time where innocence and happiness were second nature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

summer.

summer came and went

took our innocence

with the soft breeze

adolescence;

she caught up with us

finally, after all these years

from hiding from her

 

we traded in our dolls

for mixtapes and books

our lightheartedness,

disappeared when we

fell in love someone else

and forgot to love ourselves.

our contented souls now

tossed with restlessness

new ideas, places, people

confused us

 

i see you sometimes

in a hazy dream

your eyes,

lost on some highway road

searching for the exit sign

your hands,

bruised from fighting

tinged with blood

your laugh,

the melancholic chords

echoing throughout the car

 

that’s who we are now…

lost, but still driving

searching, but never finding

and i’m still getting used to it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mirror.

I look in the mirror every morning.

I look into the eyes of a girl, who is so tired.

I brush her hair and paint her face. Yet no matter how much I paint and plaster, I can’t hide her eyes.

This girl, just wanted a few things. To be loved, to complete her dreams, to be appreciated, and to belong somewhere and not feel misplaced.

I’ve failed her. I keep telling her that we’re going to do it, make it, etc.

Yet, I hide her underneath my womanly ways. I tell her to be quiet and let the woman, who knows more, talk in the conversation.

Every day I go home, and I wash off my paint. It swirls down the drain. She stares back at me; she knows what I’ve done, she knows I’m leaving her behind.

They want me to, is the excuse. Slowly, I can feel the magic slipping through my hands. My dreams are becoming…well dreams, incomplete and something one day, I might look back and laugh at.

She’s so disappointed. What I haven’t told her is, so am I.

I’m so disappointed in who I’ve become. I can barely look in the mirror and not cry.