It is too easy to make affliction handsome
When it's lined with rhyme
Traced by thin fingers
The numb glow of a dawn window.
White drapes on skin and glass
Dark eyes torn with pain made
In the lighting we chose.
Peculiar how artificial lighting
Is sometimes what looks at us
Definitive of the place we try to convince ourselves
In fact the glow of a lightbulb is
The caress of sunlight
A perfect intensity behind closed blinds
Does not cover the stench
Of fevered sweat and human ache.
I guess even that can sound nice
When I tenderly stroke my own quivering cheek
Crying? Don’t be ridiculous.
I thought I wasn’t supposed to look pretty like this.
How come I can never look away
From my own torn face
When it is choking on truth?
I'll laugh about it later.
My pillow remembers the smell
Of tears, brushed away by ink.
Gloss. We paint our wounds in thick blues and grays
What reflects best. This angle
My mirror is cracked but I never was
I suppose it's a way to cope.
We cannot bear the dirtying carpet
Plastic, a label, reminding me
That everything I own
Is a replica
Do not interrupt my daydream
It is how I pretend that this
Distasteful ordinary issue
Is a grievous struggle
Worthy of internal storms
I tuck it in my pocket. The words
I use to wrap my burdens.
Is it beautiful? The way we
Make things graceful in their ugliness.
Glorify dirt on museum floors
Blood on cracked lips.
no longer pretend
If I believe it to be true for long enough
It is sick. Disgusting.
These pretty poems.