2-Minute Poetry

Skin on skin
Bone on bone
Silky and soft,
Smooth and hard.
Deep blue eyes penetrate my soul.
You always told me that
the world would end in fire.

Metal on concrete,
Glass on diamonds.
Hard, sharp, smooth and rough.
It pierces skin, pierces flesh
and bleeds.
I told you, didn't I?
It'll end in ice.

...

Black hair black jeans black shirt black belt black makeup black black blackblackblack
Ebony eyes
Silver details
(it's all in the details)

You look at me, up and down,
"Doesn't all that color overwhelm you?"
Said disdainfully/with a sneer.
No, I sigh, no it doesn't.

(But you do.
Sometimes, I think that's your raison d'etre
But you're way too self-absorbed for that.)

Crumpled tissues litter the floor, wet with water
from spilled glasses that are 3 days old
(and old tears).
It's chaos, and not the kind that pleases.
Books are stacked everywhere, cheerful bright covers
and cheerful little stories, pathetically happy and fictional.

You look at it, from the cluttered desks
(cluttered bed, cluttered floor, cluttered bookcases, cluttered life)
to the pile of dirty old plates
to the small grimy windows, overlooking nothing but feet.
"Garbage. Your life is a garbage can. You are pathetic.
How do you live with yourself?"

Yes, it is. Yes, I am.
But then, so are you.
(And I've managed to live with you much longer)

You pull a pretty little notebook out of the nowhere
one of the many that I've jotted in
one of the many that I've abandonned

And sneer at the words.
They tell the life of the average typical teens.
(Drugs, sex, cutting and eating disorders, babe. We are in the era of the fucked up.
Behold, our new generation)

Don't sneer at my "life" boy.
Not until you get one of your own.
Until then, you're just a cold voice with nasty comments.
I’m too weary to do anything but sigh.

And one day, I wake to find out that you're gone.
You've left
(They all do, one way or another)
and I simply cannot wait to find out who will replace you.

I stumble out of bed
(gritty with the crumbs of crackers and god knows whats)
and step on the floor. Wet.
(I'm forever spilling water)

I reach my closet and see nothing but black
and sigh.
He's right. It depresses me.
(I feel like burning it all
and stepping out on the street, naked
void of what makes my identity
and standing with whatever that's left that makes me me)

So I do.
And I burn my room down too.
And I burn my life down too.
And I have nothing, nothing at all
(no chaos, no clutter, no black, no EDs, no nothing)
No nothing except me.

And I left this world
the very same way that I came.

With nothing but me.

-------------------------------------
He comes by the next day
to find a lump of ashes and ruins, fading in the wind.
He sighs.

The weak crawl back to their semblance of a life.
The strong systematically eliminate and built a new one.
The tortured burn it to the ground.