Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Woman’s Heart Is A Deep Ocean Of Secrets

I’m the girl next door,
if you live next door to an asylum.
Drinking juice with ice that once fell from my own eyes,
old (by Hollywood standards) and overrated,
crying about how life’s cruelty feels so premeditated,
while I consider the last kiss with the first person who made me feel alive in the longest time.
There was a sense of freedom,
my chest, bare and free of everything but her fingertips.
Her kiss was a promise,
some kind of congratulations for the fact that I’d finally been brave enough to admit that I’m no good by myself.
She scales the walls of the mad house,
in the early hours of the morning,
as the shy sunrise sparkles against my scars,
and we kiss,
lips nervous and nurturing,
as I lean from my window,
like the doomed Capulet kid,
and she holds my face,
like she’ll never let go.
The blankets feel like ice water when she’s gone,
like I am the last, languishing heartbeat, holding onto life,
as the boat beside me sinks,
and I am beside myself with grief,
at how the world feels so wide,
when I am in it alone.
The ship has gone down.
No more violins,
no more rich men, running across crumbling decks,
no more lifeboats and lives ending.
There is a starlet in the sun,
freezing to death.
A girl,
alone,
alive,
but waiting for her life to begin again,
when her lover pulls her from the hands of hypothermia,
and holds her face,
like she’ll never let go.

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