I feel the cool metal, kiss my soft fingertips

The gleaming sword I hold, trails on the stone floor.

The world turned dark, but through a quiet eclipse,

I press my ear to the iron door.

The blood in my body turned black,

as I longed to go in, sword swinging.

But with a strained exhale, I held back-

For I heard the haunting song they were singing.

“Clothed in black, darkening red rivers,

Stay sleeping nimble beast of lore-

For your footsteps in the night bring me shivers,

as they hold unfathomable power forevermore.”

I touched my finger to the metal,

The rivers dripped from my stroking touch;

and my hurt withered away, as an old petal,

I was done being hurt this much.

I was no longer glass,

pieced together by blood.

Here I was metal and steel, alas-

My newofund sword cut through the flood.

I cocked my head slightly,

As I opened the door with a crack.

and smiled as my sword shined brightly.

I whispered erethrally, "I'm back."

#poetry #poet #challenge #sword #fantasy #rhyme #creative #writing #writers

Hot skin

desperate eyes

glass fingertips

shattered expectations

broken skin

hopeless hearts

empty emotions

bottled bruises

forgotten fire

melted memories

repeat.

She looked at the glass and said to the wall,

I'm the ugliest of them all.

She looked at the ball and said to the doll,

I'm the most worthless of them all.

She looked at the rat and said to the cat,

I'm the dumbest of them all

She looked at the knife and said to her wife,

I'm the dead one among them all

we had fun head-banging to metal in the parking lot. i laughed at your crazy hair.

the yellow moon thinks we’re fun to watch.

dont you dare ruin the moment with sentiment. your honeyed words.

how could you, when you know my heart is off limits?

stop trying to make this special with soft words, with the blue stars in your eyes.

this friendship or whatever this is. what are we, you and me?

i’m sick of feelings. can’t you just talk about favorite colors and stupid songs?

no, that’s not our star. nothing is ours. we are not a we. please.

the truth? he did it, and then we were done.

if you do it too, i won’t be able to stop myself from running. again.

yea, we love the same things, down to the note in a song. it’s crazy.

we cry for jack johnson and we’d die to play like jimmy page.

yes, we have the same mind, made of the same things. the colors especially.

heck, we have the same favorite pop-tart. who else likes fruity pebbled waffles?

just leave it there, don’t get into the ‘soulmate’ thing. i don’t want to know if we are.

hope flies, truth shatters. i saw the syrupy way you smiled, my stomach sank. don’t lie.

man, we were really flying down that highway, with the streetlights making it a party.

i held your guitar so it wouldn’t fly out. you looked at me like i was cradling a baby.

probably shouldn’t have touched it in the first place. i saw that terrible lovesick look.

does it make me special too, if i am friends with your most special possession?

stop smiling so sweet and soft like the gritty cotton candy taste left behind. we’ll lose this.

and you knew i was broken, why would you hit me where it hurts like that?

hey, don’t dress like me. 80′s is my era, no stealing, no matching. don’t sit so terribly close.

why would you mess with my head? you know i run without looking back.

and don’t write me a song. that’s where it all ended. the notes whispering about love.

don’t write me a song, you know how that killed me.

my mom pulled up his song the other day.she didn’t know it was the one he made for me.

i cried too hard. don’t do it, when you know its wrong. when you know songs are my love language.

don’t write me a song.don’t strum the strings so soft like that.don’t turn me into a melody

with your glass fingertips, your warm ‘hold you’ eyes. don’t name it after me, my hair, my colors.

i’ll lose you.

and i won’t feel a thing.

light glittering idly past

thick glass in the shape of my hands; glass,

crawling up past my skin, splintering with pain where

it and i unevenly end and begin

these fingers are sometimes cavities that hardly move--hand,

much the same--empty of themselves and

empty of me, in all of my

shimmering blinding stillness

sometimes i think

sometimes i wonder

if my empty fingers cry out a

possibility of the future of the rest of me

fingers sometimes almost as real as skin,

see my bones bending gently within

web of tendons and nerves, bodies of muscle;

all drowned in my blood

sometimes these fingers move,

and when they do, i move to

cup your cheek in my hand,

try not to wince when you do, as my hand is far too cold for you

other times, when these fingers refuse to take orders from my mind of minds,

you hold my hand in your gloved one (again, i am far too cold)

and you read and sing me to sleep when i begin to cry

because i don’t recall feeling you and i miss what i don’t quite understand

i wish, sometimes, that i was

better

for you--

warm and alive and well and

i miss you, i miss you,

even when you are so close, even when you are so near,

because it’s killing me to have the means

to touch your hand or your face, yet not be able to feel

the gloves are stark white

and rimmed with lace

hiding fingers of glass

underneath

they're beautiful, sure

that's what they used

to say as they sparkled

in the watery morning sunlight

but they've been broken,

smashed, one time too many

so their shine

has been imprisoned,

covered in folds of fabric

and the shelter hurts as much

as the bleeding would

the sharp edges glide

screeching against the tiled walls

I smile grimly

as it resounds through my heart’s halls

“I’m back”

that’s what you said

“and ready to get hurt?”

I asked as you made the bed

the bed of our relationship

you’re ready to get in again

ready to feel the pain of my

fingertips against the skin of your heart again

it’s just some glass shards

stuck on me

it’ll leave you bleeding

can’t you see?

you don’t get it, do you?

staying here will leave you broken

will leave you gasping

leave you ready to sue

sue me now, sugar

before we get to deep

“but all I want is you”

you murmur as you fall asleep

Etching old familiar swirls

I marvel in my glory

Holding up glass fingertips

for they will tell my story

I've filled the walls surrounding me

with words I wish to say

I wish the walls would just collapse

so luck would come my way

I tap the glass and hear the clink

My home becoming rough

This glass box that I'm captured in

has always been enough

But what if I just long to go

escape these lucid walls

Lavish in the freedom when

the glass breaks and it falls

But I sit here, I'm dreaming

surrounded by the dust

Admiring my glass fingertips

I wish I was enough

Can I trust these memories?

Or was it just a crystal caress?

Played over and over in tousled sheets

Tones wrung from brushed lips

Fractured shards of emotion hang

Below these heaving sighs

Cold breath forming frost lace

On your glass fingertips

Was it me?

Was it Time?

Was it the world?

Was it anything?

glass fingertips,

where do i end

and the mirror begins?

where am i?

in a funhouse,

my reflection stares back at me but my eyes are blank

when my glass hands stretch towards the mirror,

trying to guide

myself

through this hall of mirrors,

i wonder,

where do i end

and the mirror begins?

i do not understand

why my fingers are shattering

as they close around my wrist.

they do not quite reach

all the way around,

and i want them to.

i want to close my hand around my wrist,

full circle,

because that will mean i can finally

be skinny.

i want to shatter my fingers,

use the edges of my torn stubby nails

to rip open my flesh of glass.

where do i end,

and the mirror begins?

i like to watch my skin shatter,

boil,

burn

tear

rip

scream.

my fingers are glass and i cannot see myself in this world of mirrors.

my body is glass and i have been shattered.

melt me in a forge,

reform my

broken fingers.

how did they break?

how did i break?

what happened

to my glass mind.

my glass mind?

no.

do not treat me like i am glass,

i want to be stone.

my chest is stone,

but my fingers are glass,

stuck in between,

a chrysalis of me and you,

yes and no,

opposites attract and coexist.

glass houses throwing stones,

i am the glass and the stone,

i do not know what i mean.

where do i end

and the glass begins?

glass fingertips tracing

me

how can the shattered mirror be a weapon

and a force of love

of lust

of of of of of

i do not know who i am.

glass?

stone?

glassandstone?

i am all that i wish to be

and all that i wish i was not.

am

am not

am

am not

not.

my thoughts are so confusing that even i do not understand them

loose lips and wide hips yet i am skinny as a rope and silent as a feather falling.

opposites attract.

i wish someone would throw stones at my glass house

so i could break,

let my fingertips shatter,

and take the pieces and slice myself into ribbons

because clocks are broken

and i am right twice a day.

glass is broken.

i walk along the remains of my fingers

glass that does not want to be used.

the glass is cursed.

it cuts my bare feet and i love the pain.

i love the pain and i have no fingers so i walk along the remains.

my hands are stubs.

i like to kiss my knuckles,

where the broken glass of my fingertips meets the stone of my hands

i kiss the shards and my lips bleed

cracked, dry, broken.

me.

me and my bloody lips.

me and my bloody lips yet my lips are smooth as silk.

opposites attract.

where do i end

and the glass begins?

where do i end

and you begin?

i do not want to be glass.

you are glass and you are me so i am glass.

i am the thing i never wanted to be.

glass, so easily shattered.

me, already broken.

no more fingers.

no more feelings.

let me lose.