simple poetry

The thing is I love you so much, probably too much for my own good.
—  Tenari Ioapo
and then there are days when the simple act of breathing leaves you exhausted. it seems easier to give up on this life. the thought of disappearing brings you peace. for so long i was lost in a place where there was no sun. where there grew no flowers. but every once in a while out of the darkness something i loved would emerge and bring me to life again.
i would delete your number but i have it memorized like the back of my hand so it wouldn’t do much good when i’m drunk.
i would burn all of my pictures of you but they remind me of the good memories more than the bad ones.
i would stop listening to that song but in my head we’re sitting in the car and your god awful singing drowns out everything else around us.
i would say yes to a date with that boy in my math class but i know i’d just be thinking about our first date the whole time.
i would stop wearing the necklace you gave me but you smiled with your eyes when you gave it to me and thats when i knew i loved you.
i would stop looking for your face in every crowd but you used to always be there when i wanted you to be and it’s still my first instinct.
i would stop writing about you but i need a a way to tell you things without actually telling you.
i would forget about you but it’s almost as if i don’t want to forget about you at all.
—  it’s not that simple, see

the crossroads have seen too many girls
willing to sell their souls
for a beauty that already belonged to them.

a liminal space
where boundaries thin like wisps of smoke
in early dawn light.

but there is beauty in this too, soft pastel colours,
a quiet empty echo of laughter and then darkness,
encompassing and heavy, pressing into lungs
but still radiant somehow.

for now demons count souls
like dollar bills held close to devil red chests, smiles curling
because they think that they’ve won.

but one day those girls will see past black ringed promises
bartered at an intersection of road,
down to the skin that was already perfect
and that quiet empty echo of a soul that had been perfect too.

hell will see.
the four horsemen are nothing
compared to an army of girls ready to reclaim what is theirs.

l.s. | LIMINAL SPACE © 2017