by ty

sometimes, we all like to pretend that we are infallible,
blessed with the ability to mould ourselves to concrete walls,
flimsy plastic and transparent sheets –
where cleavage furrows would form where our knees ended
when in fact we’re flawed,
nothing but rusting physical containments of water,
emotions and empty promises, fingernails digging into palms,
dripping ecstasy, or at the very least,
what was left of its
glamorous vibrancy.

on other occasions, we’d imagine ourselves strung over
a thin cutting line donned with glistening gems, ends
honed with explicit superiority, hungry for perforating pale skin –
where guilt and disappointment would leak through ebony sins,
vicious parasites released
into an environment they were best adapted to, roots deep and
expansive, the aftertaste of sweat and graphite pulsing
through bleeding lips –
a calamitous embodiment of what her slip of emotions inflicted
on his, and perhaps her
bare skin.