It’s funny how only
two hours ago
I respected you
for braving the
infamous
three-worded lie.
Can’t you see the
crystalline giggles
trickling down my cheeks?
You always were a
sucker
for the sweet taste of sour-
apple chapstick on sugar-
coated innocence.
And your tongue lodged
in my burning throat
appears to be the only thing
keeping the vomit down.
I know you hate it when
I make a mess,
but I can’t stop
these tears from
staining my cheeks
or the blood dripping
down my inner thighs from
getting on the sheets.
Sweaty palms inching
ever-so-slowly
down the sides of my body
hold me place
despite the
exclamations of protest
and uncontrollable
spasms.
The touch of your
fingertips against my
bare flesh
hurts and
I just want to go
home.
Tell me,
is the rush of false
control
enough to make your heart
attack?
(I wish it was)
Is the blood pumping
just a little
harder
through your colorless veins?
Or was it the sensation of my
broken heart skipping
beats against your chest
that sent you over the edge?
The doctor says,
“It’s all his fault,
there was nothing you
could do.”
But, tonight,
pressing the icy steel against
my throat, I can’t help but
wonder what use
is this thing called a
“voice box” when on
that night
I forgot to
scream. |
Submission Name: Bullets Through My Voice Box
