Red Handed

You squeeze broken glass into your hand,
Don't you know that blood won't clean?
Your sins won't fall through your fingers like sand,
Because you've made them too red to not be seen.

-anna sluder

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Oblivion

I'm here and you are looking at me and I at you and I am tugging at the string that I had so tightly tied around your finger hoping you won't forget and I'm thinking about my body burning every freckle, place that you touched or held every inch of skin and limb and crinkle that holds memories of a smile burned tossed among the wind in a bohemian-like dance that insists I be tossed like bird food among the places that I loved when I only ever really loved you but I suppose being worm food isn't much better at the hands of grave diggers too So I'm here looking at you Hoping you'd give a penny for these thoughts because they feel worth a million since they are like dreams that when you wake up you pine to remember but they are already gone perhaps they are truly nothing but you still want to know even go mad to hear what unconsciousness tasted like the high of genius you get from snorting unreality like a drug Just tell me, was I beautiful ...
Read more

Another Poem about My Body In Which My Body is the Poem

I draw my pale thoughts over my head like a blanket and wonder if the discomfiture ever gets softer on the heart see I've learned why the heart beats against the chest wall, it is a war drum on the front lines of my thoughts the harbinger before the marching towards the skin and the vessels and the hair. at first, I wanted my skin to stretch like the tendon of a blue sea to make room for all of the ache, but now I want to be small, to shrink and slip through the eye of an needle and take less space and air than everyone else in the room I dream of being the first atom to split; of being swallowed by a beach pelican, and spat out like tiny fish bones he couldn't devour; there are so many unfinished poems in my chest, I'd like to think my body is an unfinished poem that I am writing, and that one day maybe not every poem will be about my body, but they will be about the mountains and rivers I command to rise in the softest parts of me; I hope you are commandi...
Read more

Visiting Grandma

Charlie, you must know Old Grandma Vivienne is a wild old hoot, No more than that, she's a crazy old bat, No, no, no, a sadistic psychedelic maniac So as mother always says: Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't smell her flowers, She used to be an apothecary you know. Oh Lydia! I'm sure she's not so bad, just you wait I'm sure Old Grandma Vivienne is nice, No Charlie! Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't smell her flowers! She used to be a mortician you know She can't be all of those things, Lydia! But! I promise that I won't listen to what she says, I won't take her candy when offered, or smell her flowers Good Charlie, because she used to be a taxidermist you know. At early noon, Charlie trekked through weeds and fallen logs, Chanting all Lydia had told him: Don't listen to what she says, don't take her candy when offered, and don't ...
Read more