Furniture

Poetry

She is the chair
The table
The lie
Easily destroyed
Broken furniture
Peel of your smile
It’s unnecessary
When everything
Around just breaks
Your wife
That chair
That table
That lie
You look so confident
In your unwashed clothes
Keep breaking her
That’s what an asshole would do
The TV jingles on and on
While you just laugh
And carry on

 

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Bleeding Fingers

Poetry

My poor bleeding fingers
Emptiness lingers
Traces on the bed sheets
He found me, made me shiver
Torn into little pieces like a tissue
Used too many times- unsuitable for wiping tears
Falling apart

He was a demon, thirsty incubus
Succumbed to his sweet talk
Made me think the unthinkable
I wanted to kill him but he kept moving so quickly
Teeth bulged through the bed sheets
No voices- just dripping
My questionable christening

He obliged to be my God
I tried to sob out that I lost my religion
But I couldn’t stop being his open scissors
I want to become clean again
The martyrdom stains are like ink
He called me his dirty, filthy bitch
Choking on his hard omnipotence

Finally finished, he left with a smile
Shut the door, I heard the lock
For the time being, he’s gone

I touch myself and stared into bleeding fingers
He captured me and now I serve
I wish I knew for how long, the contract was never given
Little bird in the cage, without a feeder
If only I could escape
And take his heart out with my poor little fingers

Ventriloquist

Poetry

Paint a smile on me with red paint
Like blood for thirsty vampires
On my alabaster, youthful skin
Pinch and turn the flesh of my cheeks
You are better than makeup in making me blush
Turn me into a rose without thorns
I know you are afraid but you never show it
I don’t want to feel responsible
Men are weak, but they never show it
I feel as if I’m a doll and you are the ventriloquist
You speak on behalf of my silence
I’ve been silent for too long
It could be that I’m already dead,
Maybe, I really, really am