ribcage

this is my happy poem. this is my everything-is-gonna-be-all-right poem, my holding-it-together-because-i-don’t-want-to-fight poem. this is four minutes past midnight, the thrill long stale on my tongue, right beside vacuum cleaners, vending machines and the prospect of love.

this is my sky-blue days, as they dry out the crops. the sun in my eyes, candlewax on old keys. and maybe it’s been a day, or maybe it’s been a hundred years, i don’t fucking have a clue.

this is my chapped lips, forgotten phrases. just microwave breakfast, you know the drill. and you’d be surprised how long 1% battery can last you.

because i’m tired of getting better. tired of scenic walks, and everlasting phone calls. but i don’t really mean that. it’s just… the colours spin, and the city lights glitter, and in the commercials, they told me life was supposed to get better.

drew me up with shiny hair, and a barbie doll waist. but when i turned thirteen, they crumpled up the sketch, and threw it away, and god does it haunt me, even now.

so i’ll wear high heels and my favourite dress, so tight i can’t breathe, just to take them off when i come home, and let out a sigh of relief because at least something is over, you know? and it keeps me sane, as the sky turns grey, and the gods i used to worship turn their backs on the good old days. when they held my hand, and promised that in the end, everything was gonna be okay.

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