Eyes like the most overused cliches:
Like a scuba dive gone horribly wrong.
Eyelids to life jacket,
Keeping me afloat with every
Every third grade staring contest.
The skin that crawls over his bones as a keeper of all things secret?
That skin, that very skin, might save the unsalvageable:
The fallen angel carrying the burden of a thousand broken butterfly wings.
The monarchs traded them in for a crooked smile and a bottle of wine
That only aphrodite herself could weep.
As I’m sitting here, at the library, in a failed attempt to study, I was sparked with some inspiration. I casually write prose, poetry, among other things. I’ve never shared my work in a public setting, so why not share it on a blog that few will ever stumble upon?
I wrote this over the summer and it’s still in rough shape. Alright, here we go:
Does he know that when he talks, the words drip from his mouth like honey into a warm, not hot, glass of chamomile tea? Relaxing and soothing as if to seal my fate in a coffin of eternal rest. But here I am, the untouched, unharmed victim of Darwinism. I am the monkey who slipped through Charles’ sights. I evolved from a splatter of paint that never learned how to dry: not quite dripping to the bottom of the wall, but perpetually damp to the touch just enough to ruin freshly washed blue jeans from a store I never had the money to shop at.