Thoughts of a Poetic Insomniac

My skeleton lover lies beneath my bed each night.

Most times, I am blissfully unaware of his presence.

Not every night I am naïve, however-

And tonight I lay here sleepless unable to shake the feeling of him.

He is the emptiness in my chest,

He weighs on me so deeply I cannot be free.

Not of him-

Or my bed.

On these nights he crawls into my bed,

Draws his skeletal hands over my arms,

And his sharp tongue across my back.

He is comforting in a sad way.

The way late night walks and early autumn leaves feel-

A certain melancholy familiarity with a sort of charm.

He plunges his dry tongue through my chest,

bones snapped and my innards rebelling against him in squelching protest.

Screams pierce the air although I don't know if they are mine-

I am disconnected, in a strange way, from my own self.

At last he draws out my bloody heart, its frantic beating now the only sound in the room.

He curls his tongue inward, veins still connected to my deranged body stretching and finally snapping-

Covering my bed and himself in blood.

Finally he places my heart in his mouth, savoring it like a sugar-filled sweet

And devours me.

Anatomy Of My Teenage Heart

In my mind I am wrapped in vines and thorns.

Lush flowers blossom scarlet where they pierce my skin.

Proof of blood spilt from a time I believed

I had to feel pain to be good enough.

Sharp pain follows cool metal,

I trace my sins into my skin,

I seek repentance in warm blood.

But when your sins are as great as I believed,

there is no amount of pain to feel to find redemption.

I became a broken angel with a myriad of welts,

tracing and telling the story of my fall.

My memories -my regrets-

became a noose around my neck,

Making me feel as if

there is not enough air in the world for me to breathe.

I am gasping,

reaching for something to take the pain away

holding the edges of my humanity as if it could save me

From the empty void that is me.

Instead, I fall deeper into a discordous sea

Trapped in a whirlpool of emotions,

wave after wave throwing me further into the darkness.

Until the light in my life is far enough gone,

I cannot tell which way the surface is,

And whether my efforts to claw my way there

are only bringing me deeper.

Title: Letters to November (or open to change)

Genre: poetry

Gray (legal name Gracie) Scadden

I am currently working on a collection of descriptive YA-Adult poetry centered around my experiences and mental health, as well as things I simply find beautiful. It will be connected, succinct (in a way), and keep the reader's rapt attention. I plan to connect with my audience and allow my readers to feel through me; I want to help people that have felt similarly. My name is Gray. I was born Gracie in Roy, Utah. I currently reside in Layton. I am 14 years old. I have been writing fiction for 4 years, poetry for 2 and a half. I attend Central Davis Junior High and am in 9th grade. As for platforms- I'm new to posting my works, but I use Prose and dabbled in Poetry Nation before doing deeper research. My personality can go from mellow to erratic, and I experience lots of anxiety regularly. I prefer to write in romantic, ekphrastic-like tones that describe a deeper concept. I love to read, cook, and create things.

Immortality is cruel to the living, but my dear, our souls are so deeply entwined we will live forever in each others arms. Even in death I will adore you, for I love naught your body if not accompanied by your mind and heart. You are a work of art painted by your own hand, with which I wish to spend eternity.

My skeleton lover lies beneath my bed each night.

Most times, I am blissfully unaware of his presence.

Not every night I am naïve, however-

And tonight I lay here sleepless unable to shake the feeling of him.

He is the emptiness in my chest,

He weighs on me so deeply I cannot be free.

Not of him-

Or my bed.

On these nights he crawls into my bed,

Draws his skeletal hands over my arms,

And his sharp tongue across my back.

He is comforting in a sad way.

The way late night walks and early autumn leaves feel-

A certain melancholy familiarity with a sort of charm.

He plunges his dry tongue through my chest,

bones snapped and my innards rebelling against him in squelching protest.

Screams pierce the air although I don't know if they are mine-

I am disconnected, in a strange way, from my own self.

At last he draws out my bloody heart, its frantic beating now the only sound in the room.

He curls his tongue inward, veins still connected to my deranged body stretching and finally snapping-

Covering my bed and himself in blood.

Finally he places my heart in his mouth, savoring it like a sugar-filled sweet

And devours me.