monksta

forget-me-nots laid on bedposts,
you howl up to the ceiling,
"you fucker",
and lie back down on a pillow
drenched in sweat (or tears),
your eyes all bloodshot and twitching,
as you fall asleep again

that summer, we used to
run over grass that looked
like it had never been taken care of,
and those scraps and bruises we got
were better than battle scars
and you got more of those
as the years went by, while I just
had little nicks and cuts

and those nights, when your covers
choke you deeply and you scream
scream so silently,
"it's my body, get the fuck away
from me. I loved you."

but no one knows really,
they just see this pristine statue
that visits them at work
in the non-dusty very white cubicles,
and goes to lunch with them
at the small portioned food tables,
and even goes to the occasional bar
to watch dirty men run hands
over skirts and blouses as if they
were cds on some rack
to peruse and smell and rough up
as seen fit.

no one cares, you echo in your head
your heart falling apart,
the petals covered in dirt on the floor

and i just have nicks and small cuts
and memories of fields and love,
you have been beaten into this reality
and the only imagination left
is the one of you free
of hate and rage.