pretty girls -
when i open my lips
and nothing comes out, i
spin circles on my
wrists and press my
tongue to the top
of my mouth.
i can’t help but
smile, quench the thirst to
hear my thoughts
outside of my own
head.
she seems to
only find the abilities to
tear the bricks from my
heart, to chunk them
through my eyes and
shatter my means of
self-worth. the
pieces pierce the
fingerprints that she
left, drawing blood that
dries in an instant,
because pretty girls
don’t bleed. they don’t
bruise or give into the
bags under their eyes
pretty girls strum the
melody of someone
else, their piano tuned to
someone else’s song.
the ukulele i pluck on stays
hidden behind clothes that
aren’t really mine, alongside
all the words i
ever wanted to say,
written on books i’ve
wanted to read and
foods i’ve wanted to eat.
the blood disappears.
right with my
dandelion seeds,
plucked eyelashes, and
the burnt remains of
wishes that are asked
at midnight, when only
God Himself can hear the
whispers that i hold in
all day, waiting for the
moments alone when i
can finally let
everything explode.