Tag: writer

Bright blue eyes peek through the blinds,

But I am not supposed to notice.

Shriveled palms creep around my waist,

But I must ignore it, must keep my focus.

His wicked stare touches my scraped knees,

And I know he has crossed the line.

Whoever blinks first is the perpetrator,

Even if I committed no crime.

Money shoots in the air when he laughs.

Are we not supposed to notice?

His nails dig into my bare shoulders.

If I scream, will they call me bogus?

Bubbly liquids ensure I stay numb.

We are on the other side now.

He is waiting to crush me with his thumb,

And no one will say he is not allowed.

-Jackie

I tuck all my nemeses behind my left ear,

Put their dimes in my pockets,

Hoping no one can hear.

I see the sun burning down those I hold dear.

The city streets whisper,

My old friends disappear.

They say I blow up fresh bridges every week,

And my excuses are endless,

But their reasoning – weak.

The papers print words that some snitches leak,

Calling for me to forfeit,

But I’m almost at the peak.

One day rude tongues will quit their places.

My flesh wounds will heal,

But I won’t forget faces.

My body might reach new homeostasis.

Your hate will dissolve too,

It won’t leave a trace.

-Jackie

Are you shouting my excuses from the rooftops?

Are you hoping that I’m finally free?

I chase my past, and this race never stops.

You’re the last face I see before I go to sleep.

Do you imagine my eyes like they used to be?

Are they wiser and even more hypnotic?

My fingers disturb the surface of jealousy,

And we mix under the moon like gin and tonic.

-Jackie

Attention follows me around the street corner,

And I hear its dirty claws coming for my neck.

I want them to perceive me as the final loner,

And I want them to see me as nothing but a threat.

Sharp gazes dig into my flesh like some razors.

They cut off my clothes and slash open my throat.

The path ahead flows in black and blue phases,

But all that I need is to keep myself afloat.

Some cutting words slice off strands of my hair.

If I flinch even a little, the last sword will fall.

My screams get muffled in the hot and heavy air.

I would seek help, but I have nobody to call.

-Jackie

They monitor my photos for a whisper of a rumor,

Then go and spill my worst stories over some tea.

The crowds laugh it off, but I do not see the humor,

And their soulless screens will not get my sympathy.

My silence is offensive, so they tell me to scream.

My rage is a currency they exchange on weekends.

Their judgements come at me in one whirling beam,

And I know they desire for me to start bleeding.

Do they know I rip out my hair as I lay awake?

Their small-town politics are making my skin peel.

They already know it all, what else is there to take?

Tear apart my existence, it is free for you to steal.

-Jackie