My Own Personal Pocket Cordelia



how like Jesus I could be

turning the other side of my heart

for your strike


always felt lower

after talking to you

screaming, not dreaming

always feeling like

we listen to different music

through the same headphones

put on your five dollar smile-in-a-bottle

a stick figure would wear wear that skirt better

that was mean

almost as mean as you


how deep you think you are

digging yourself a hole

dark poetry your shovel

you pushed me down

until I broke

and ground my ashes

with your Sperry-clad heel

never knowing what

it meant

to feel anything

but happiness

because only attention whores cry

and only drama queens kill themselves


and when you start talking about blood on the walls

she looks at you funny but doesn't see the words

trickling to the ground


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