Miss. Dubious
I talk about blue air surrounded by dark eyelashes,
I talk about bony arms,
Bloody toes that walk on broken fragments
sharp pieces of her own mind.
To me she is hands that paint
but can’t find inspiration.
She is hair colored by the sun,
As she lays in her black bedroom.
She is the beacon and the lighthouse,
that draws people away from the sea.
But she is singular.
Her friends are the Gods she prays to.
She whispers bruised arms and lost promises,
She speaks of loud voices and numbness,
Nothingness.
She is loneliness.
Shallow breathing and fast heartbeats and a forehead
permanently marked with doubt.
She falls in love with hope.
Heartbreak eats at her nerves,
The same way she picks at her scabbed thighs
with chewed off fingertips.
The stars in her eyes are becoming both blacker and brighter,
The daisies that wrap around her bones are wilting all of the time.