there's something about those little broken
dreamer girls with misproportionate promises
and lingering whispers,
who walk like angels, lost, and trying
to find a way back home;
whose hearts bleed abnormally loud
and resonant- those girls with
shadows like ghosts [dead and haunting],
that make them a flavor
to taint your tongue.
if you listen close, you can hear the
unraveling words that once knit the hollow space
between their bones,
you can hear their shallow sighs like
sun sets for a final time.
you can hear their ticking time bomb lungs
and you can touch their secrets, because they
wear them on their skin. not like wounds,
more like sun kisses or wispy tattoos
ingrained into who they are; you won't know
what they mean until you connect the dots
and find answers in their questioning stares.
they'd like to remain something unknown, because
they've identified the world as a disease- vile and
insidious, with the capability of sinking
underneath your flesh and changing who you are.
these girls wince like lambs, aware of
wolves at their haunches; they hide
from open sky because they remember the day
it all came tumbling down.
they steal away, for some better purpose yet to be
understood or even explained.
there's something about them- their
moony eyes and mistrusting hands, their withdrawn
ideals that reflect their wilting nature;
those girls whose thoughts tremble when given a voice,
and who have built their foundation
upon a faulty philosophy of wishes
that makes them shine like heaven;
beckoning and enrapturing, more dazzling than
even their dreams had dared
[brilliantly, brightly, right before they