Tag: author

I hear they celebrate stories like mine on silver screens.

They grin as they dress up in expensive dresses,

Showing off wealth and sheen.

But I, I am just left here, remembering every scene,

Counting down numbers and addresses,

Hoping I do not sound mean.

The bitterness has a way of seeping through the skin though,

Almost like filtered poison or toxic waste,

A radioactive afterglow.

So, I know they notice, I know they hear my nos

As I fade, losing my vision and taste,

Leaping towards yet another low.

They pop open bottles of champagne as I cry myself to sleep,

Ending the day as a winner in their story,

Dangling my feet over the deep.

I swear I can hear the dimes and coins whisper, but talk is cheap,

And I am not the one who should be sorry

With my body in roaring waters, head pushed underneath.

Still, I hear they celebrate stories like mine in balls,

One afterparty after another…

Their world must feel suffocating and small.

Meanwhile, all I see is cages, there are no windows or walls,

No bonds of the blood, no brothers,

Just apathetic eyes and missed calls.

-Jackie

Cemeteries only haunt the living,

They gnaw at us like vultures,

Reminding that the time is ticking,

Pitting nature against nurture.

I am trapped in the nets of time,

And every day they cut me open.

If I trip and fall off this line,

My soul will be done with hoping.

But cemeteries only haunt the brave,

They look at us with slight smiles.

One foot deep in an early grave,

The other chasing long-gone miles.

I am tortured by my own demise,

And every second it kills me anew.

If I lose this one last disguise,

My heart will have to walk in your shoes.

-JW

Watch as I drink myself holy with this sacred wine,

Watch as the sacrament melts on this tongue of mine.

The crosses will cross themselves off, just you wait.

I have this fiendish feeling haunting me as of late.

The glowing cloud always follows me to the red altar.

My faith is still strong but my will, it falters.

I kneel before dinner and pray right after the mass.

They praise my devotion, but they know it will pass.

Watch as they find out where all my bodies are buried,

Gasp when they realize my name was never Mary.

The flies will drink my vinegar, thinking it was honey.

I have this fiendish feeling, it tastes just like money.

-JW

Did I just do it, did I sell out?

Now that my soul has a price tag on it,

Are you finally proud?

I will be tortured for the rest of my days,

Taking your face with a grain of salt

And a layer of glaze.

But I suffer in radio silence,

That is what I was taught to do,

Be my own worst tyrant.

You must be completely devastated,

You must feel ecstatic,

Powerful and emasculated.

And you watch as I fade away,

You do not blink or breathe.

I become the prey.

Tell me, did I do it, did I sell out?

Now that my eyes have pain behind them,

Are you finally proud?

-JW

I lay the bloodstained roses on your bed

As my soul shrivels up like a leaf.

The mirrors are grinning with teeth made of lead,

They are begging me to leave.

White mist sneaks around the freezing room,

Trying hard to steal my breath.

My fingers are dripping blood on the floor

As the thorns show no regret.

I draw a scarlet circle on the wall,

Then another one on my forehead.

The air smells of iron and early fall,

And everything feels so foreign.

I pick up the stained roses from your bed

As my heart ceases to exist.

The sky is laughing and crying red,

And I finally breathe in the mist.

-JW