I have this dream

That sits in the back of my head,

Where I live in a beautiful apartment;

Small and quaint, with a beautiful view overlooking the city.

I imagine myself sipping warm tea

With sun streaming through my curtains,

My easel up against the wall.

If I look closely at myself in the mirror,

I’m not dissatisfied by my reflection.

Because I’ve finally put something into the world

That I’m allowed to be proud of.

Thinking back to who I once was ,

A vegetable,

Unable and unwilling to get out of bed even to bathe my body;

I’m inspired by the idea that those dreams;

Even if they’re just dreams

Feel attainable in that short moment.

She is ,

The poison apple

I immaturely plucked off the tree,

Bittersweet juice I would only allow

Different versions of myself to taste.

Poisoning myself

I’d forgotten I was a product of abundant nature,

A creation with no sense of humanity;

Until she whispered sweet nothings behind my wet ears.

She is ,

The monster under my bed.

A memory I can’t decipher --

A childhood dream? Or reoccurring nightmare ?

“My body still remembers the places you touched”

My tears still scream for her.

She is the first taste of love;

Like a baby reaching for the nipple ,

I cried for her.

She is

“The only person who’s ever touched me”

Soberly, at least --

The only hands I let control me.

She is gone.

But no amount of years could release

Her fingerprints from my body.

Flowers are growing in the garden

Beautiful and delicate, waiting to be plucked.

Dandelions grow around her

Stealing water from her roots.

Dehydration absorbs her energy &

Thorns erupt from her frame.

[she could be so beautiful if she… if she… if]..;

Flowers are growing in his garden

Beautiful; in full bloom, waiting to be plucked.

Soft hands bleed while caressing his petals

But they don’t find enough beauty in bandages [to stay].

You choose to wither away,

Letting weeds steal your beauty.

[pick me.]

A flower is dying in her garden

Starving, withering away.

It’s become a habit to pierce herself with her own thorns.

[save me.]..

Flowers left in the garden will end up right back in the dirt.

(help me.)

#zazi #poetry #suicide #freeverse

sponges are the hardest to clean aren't they___

you lather them in soap and try to scrub away crud from dirty dishes,

and maybe you'll wring out the sponge so it doesn't get moldy

but you'll never get the water completely out.

overtime the mold will build up

and the dampness of the porcelain sink will only warrent

more growth of unwanted organisms

that make home in the pores of your plastic polymers.

and you're so busy scrubbing away at pots and pans

that when you finally realize your sponge has been eaten away

by the parasites your habits created,

you'll be left with only a limp shelter for contamination.

#poetry #freeverse #scars #zazi

knowing every broken part of me is welcome in your space whether I'm pieced back together or not.

#love #micropoetry #freeverse #broken #friendship #relationship

#zazi

So give her information to help her fill the holes

Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled

Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in

Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin

Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest

I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed

I hate that you negate me, I'm a ghost at beck and call

I'm failing and placating, and berating myself for staying

I'm a fool

I'm a fool

~Sia

I feel like Sia's first few albums are so underappreciated. This song is so poetic and I love music that you have to listen to a few times and think about before it really gives the full effect, plus everytime I eat sweet potato I sing it in my head haha.

I want to smash apart the bed I hid under with you

Get splinters so deep they fuse together with my bones

And bleed so furiously that all the parts of me that still think of you

Are drained from my being completely.

I want to tear away the dusty green carpet and expose the rotting wood floors

Get staples so deep in my toes that there’s silver poking out through my toenails

Dust so deep in my lungs that it burns with every huff of my breath.

I want to smash into the computer screen you called me on

Let the glass push straight into my eyelids

Removing all traces of you from the hard drive

Dispelling your face from my memories.

I want to peel off my own skin

So that the pressure of your touch would be striped away

By constant burning in my open flesh.

And if I lose all sense of myself in the process

At least I’ll lose the memories of things

I’m not strong enough to say with my own mouth

That I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to talk about.

I would rather be destroyed than live with the rancid taste of

Binge eating the lies you fed me

over and over and over

Until it’s finally actually over.

#poetry

My house is a four walled room, with a toilet in the corner and a burner by the window.

The wooden floors have splinters and the metal cot is rusting.

The lamp flickers, but the bulb never kicks the bucket.

My house is a four walled box with an easel and some paint tubes.

A half dry canvas leaned up against an unpainted wall.

And overworked brushes rest in the same cups used to drink dusty tap water.

My house is a four walled, two floored room with a person passed out drunk on the floor in her underwear.

She swears in her sleep and curls up next to a bad drawing of a model she saw on Instagram.

She hasn’t taken out the garbage since she moved in six months ago.

My home is a four walled, two floored apartment, with water, a bed, an easel, a lamp, and me.

It is plain and small and dirty.

What more could I want?

Everyday I stare at a blank wall

And Imagine every possible creation my hands can produce.

I think of how great it’d be to just charge at it;

To rub the paint on my fingers and just press play.

But somehow every time I lift my brush from my palette,

There’s not even a streak of paint.

Not a single color to pick up.

Why is there a brush and a wall if I have no paint?

Are you still human if there’s nothing there?

Is a person still a person if they can’t find a way to tell you;

To prove it… even to themselves?

How timid is the artist that leaves a canvas blank,

For fear that even the slightest touch will ruin what doesn't exist.

When will she realize that even [Untitled] is a name,

And a blank canvas, a picture.