finding your hidden self behind the lo-fat milk on the shelf and the hidden bong in the closet
born in the sand (choking) with a smooth hand (stroking) and its all so claustrophobic its all stuck in a room, the broom closet where the bong is kept or better yet hidden when your mom comes over, where the extra blanket is kept for when that one friend stays over, where that former or future self is kept and sleeps and slept and creeps and you keep pretending you dont have to bedied in a box (slow breathing) with two white athletic socks (yellow stained) that you WONT BE NEEDING something that you picked at before is now bleeding, and someone is sitting on your floor staring up at you waiting for you to show them what to dothe truth is at the bottom of your clothes hamper smooshed and buried and you hoped no one would see THAT embarrassing stainits plain, like the contents of your cupboard (peanut butter, sugar, saltines, bread and coffee filters)the lo-fat milk in your fridge is a perfect metaphor for you now, useful as a complement to other things, not so great on its own, it knows its watered down, as in its kinda aware there are stronger and richer versions available but yet, content in its blandness and mediocrity, (and also it may go sour at anytime unless you use it)under your bed (where secrets are kept) or on a top shelf (with the lofty ambitions) in a crate next to old mix tapes with handwritten labels sits a stack of pictures of the you that you were and you liked and somewhere else in your eyes, in that box, in that sand, or in a beautiful lie is the you that you are dying to be (you just have to find out where, its hiding)
born in the sand (choking) with a smooth hand (stroking) and its all so claustrophobic its all stuck in a room, the broom closet where the bong is kept or better yet hidden when your mom comes over, where the extra blanket is kept for when that one friend stays over, where that former or future self is kept and sleeps and slept and creeps and you keep pretending you dont have to bedied in a box (slow breathing) with two white athletic socks (yellow stained) that you WONT BE NEEDING something that you picked at before is now bleeding, and someone is sitting on your floor staring up at you waiting for you to show them what to dothe truth is at the bottom of your clothes hamper smooshed and buried and you hoped no one would see THAT embarrassing stainits plain, like the contents of your cupboard (peanut butter, sugar, saltines, bread and coffee filters)the lo-fat milk in your fridge is a perfect metaphor for you now, useful as a complement to other things, not so great on its own, it knows its watered down, as in its kinda aware there are stronger and richer versions available but yet, content in its blandness and mediocrity, (and also it may go sour at anytime unless you use it)under your bed (where secrets are kept) or on a top shelf (with the lofty ambitions) in a crate next to old mix tapes with handwritten labels sits a stack of pictures of the you that you were and you liked and somewhere else in your eyes, in that box, in that sand, or in a beautiful lie is the you that you are dying to be (you just have to find out where, its hiding)
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
kaseypoteet:
you rock!!!! 
soph:
i like your words.