a n t i s e p t i c . l o v e . s o n g s
poem collaborations by Poetic Star [sharon] and Aya Scribbles [tiara] baby, your arsenic lips still taste
like winter never ended and
you know I'd kill myself
for more
♥
a r c h i v e s
previous entries
maybe in distance,
but not in heart..
bleed the colors of
the evening stars
Monday, June 4, 2012 4:38 AM
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forgiveness for a pirate
Dusk choked the sky with patchwork promises
as the jellyfish moon swims in a mist of lucky
strike cigarette smoke and I must be dreaming
because the Cherokee stars
I've been trying to reach aren't even there.
Still I bury parchment secrets under the birdhouse,
piling dirt and sand over a little box of conspiracies;
all of my stepmother's faults and jealous deeds leave
treasure map bruises in the corners of my mind.
She was a lady with frosty blond locks who rolled into town,
wearing expensive clothes from somewhere up north.
Little brother, I remember when you were born;
the festivities surrounding your twinkling baby blues and soft mouth.
Everyone expected me to be jealous but I loved you from the start.
A year passed quickly and then two more..
You grew into a lover of coal black pirate
ships and scouting for eagles near the cliffs.
On my fifteenth birthday, Dad gave me a brand new journal
and Stepmother pushed a useless makeup kit across the table,
commenting that I needed to masque my boring features.
But they were both shocked when you fastened a pretty
sterling chain around my neck.
Little brother, that was so kind of you, I almost wept.
Mayflowers dropped on the rooftop one summer
as we kicked a ball in the yard.
It rolled away towards the road and you ran to get it.
I shouted for you to come back because a truck was
passing but it happened too fast..
Now I'm a girl with silver blades for tears,
swinging against the chilly wind while
humming pathological nursery rhymes.
And you never stopped blaming yourself.
Oh Little Boy Blue, if you find my diary;
caked in dirt and melancholy,
you will know the truth about
so many things that as kids,
we shouldn't fall witness to.
At eighteen, you're a young man with
a baseball glove in one hand
and a suitcase in the other.
Little brother, I watched your game
from my place on the phantom bleachers.
Before the final strike, I could've sworn
you whispered my name,
throwing your guilt all the way across
the outfield and painting
a dream catcher smile on my ghost face.