Wednesday, September 28, 2011

For a friend

Across from the puddle
Her lips weren't hers
She reached out to fall
She's muted with red

She snapped at uneasiness 
Her whispers made thorns
They cuts through her torso
They handcuffed her screams

But what of her opus
Would she die a smile
to know that her death
will piss off the pigeons

She mustn't face down
She's better with teeth
But not good with small talk
She's wrinkled with comfort

I want to believe
that she's good at laughing
But that means she's living
Her eyes disagree