deadlydandelion

I don’t like to talk about it. This vulnerability, But I want to pull you close Enough to press my lips against your ear And tell you that I love the way your skin smells.

My mother Scrubs, wipes and vacuums Slaving over menial intricacies. Eats, sleeps, and breathes Like there won’t be enough for tomorrow. Yells, nags, and pesters To maintain her sanity. My mother She wishes. She is doomed to live With children that couldn’t care less. Children that evade, then exploit. Children that only want more Than what they can have. She is trapped by A critic; scored and judged by The Spouse. Who yells, throws, and threatens. He takes and takes and deprives— Resorting only to soft words before A trip to the casino. She refuses, only to be persuaded by His belligerent words. She does

  It wasn’t that there weren’t things that I didn’t like about her; I didn’t want to focus on those. Above all else, she was the most beautiful person in the world to me. It wasn’t that she was the perfect replica of ‘beautiful,’ but every little thing about her—all the fragments that came together so well—made her beautiful. I still remember her fingernails; they were round, yet pointy at the edges, sitting on top of small, delicate fingers. While my hands were always dry and slightly rough, hers were moist and soft. She always seem to have a hand covering her mouth—a trait that had always be

What if I said, I love you I love you I can’t be without you. Would you find a way to love me too?

Sometimes I can imagine him— Swear that I see him, Trudging around the house; Even though we’ve rearranged all of the furniture Even though everything has changed. I walk down the hallway Past his bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye— It’s him sitting on the bed, His body deteriorated from Pride, anger, regret And age. He says nothing— I only see him through peripherals. I dash passed that open door His dark, drooping face watches me— His dead eyes follow me. What if he’s really there? I see him every time I walk out of my room. I see him sitting on his black leather chair, In the center

“If I had a penny, yes a penny, for every time you made me laugh...” “How many pennies would you have?” “Too many.” Times like these, it’s hard for me to understand what it is that actually happened. What did actually happen? Where did I run into a fork in the road and take the wrong turn? Where in the story was my misinterpretation? I ask myself so many times a day why is it I let this happen; or, a question with a real answer, when did I let this happen? How is it that I let myself fall and scrape my knee for this one guy, who I now have realized isn’t all that great. And why did it take me so lon

I like to tell myself that I can talk about it, Although I’m sure I really cannot. I’m positive I cannot. And even if I were willing No one would want to hear it. All they want to know is if I can hide it well enough. When they ask me if I’m okay If I’ve dealt with it If it still hurts me They’re just asking because it’s mandatory. Because no one really wants to know how it feels.

My eyes have lost that bright bright shine And the way I used to walk with pride Now my head is too heavy to hold up My feet too heavy to pick up And I sit here, pondering why I am this way. What went so wrong And how long ago? Why is it just hitting me now So suddenly, So abruptly. I feel as if I shouldn't move In fear that I might just break. Or maybe I will fall over And never be able to get up again. My eyelids are so heavy, They're hard to keep open Maybe if I blink, They won't ever open again My lips are so hard to lift; This permanent frown upon my face I feel as if I'm being dragged down.