Overkill Issue #9 - Poetry, anonymous

Infinity on a Number Line
Tonight, he is wrapped up tight, sweating out a fever.
He cannot promise that he will love her tomorrow.
But today he knows that he cannot ever leave her.
He has not learned; hearts are to break, not to borrow.
She has something contagious on her lips,
And she is hoping he has not built up immunity.
Her lips must be so cold against his.
The irony is not lost on this unity.
When you are invincible, forever is meaningless.
Days become seconds, and lovers become hobbies.
There is nothing salient in living like this.
Names become jargon; bedrooms become lobbies.
We are just passing the time
Until we can accept that we all have to lie.

Daphne

Until she was seventeen, they called her Juliet.

Then they called her Daphne; it seemed a better fit.

She didn’t chase after love, and quit fighting just to hurt.

She chose to flip her hair, smile, drink, and flirt.

Everything she used to say chokes her, steals her air.

Her eyes are always shifting; she never tends to stare.

She wants nothing from everyone that slides into her bed,

But she wants everything from nobody that exists outside her head.

Stigmata

I never intended to break the wooden chair,

But there are splinters in my palms.

It looks like stigmata, but God cannot see me.

I’ve gone into hiding for the sake of being free.

I am too proud to sing these psalms,

And I am too cold to breathe in the warm air.

Save your pity. If I wanted to drown,

I would fall into the ocean.

Freezing, black, and pressing on my heart;

Everything should end the way it starts.

Suspended, free from motion

And finally on my own.

I cannot be near you. You are too fragile

Like the glass I shattered when I drank too much

Or the hearts I broke when I was sober.

The cycle goes on. It is never over.

You cannot bounce back from my punch

When I take a good swing, swift and agile.

Please, do not forgive me for my sins.

You never deserved this.

Ghosts

There is a ghost living here. I hear its feet.

It breathes on my clothes and my bed sheets.

There is a shiver in my spine.

I feel a change in my design.

It crawls across my skin,

So I try to get warm by drinking. That only lets it in.

Under my skin and to my nerves.

Synapses become more like spasms, and I am lost for words.

It haunts my dreams, if I am ever asleep.

It shatters mirrors and burns pictures that I keep.

The smell of hatred engulfs my system,

And I cannot even listen.

Noises become static.

People become erratic.

I cannot help anything that my hands do.

I cannot control where I move.

This is not my fault.

I know I am wrong, but I cannot stop.

I am in a bed that a phantom made.

I have company; I do not know his name.

Spare the sympathy.

You have not been with me.

I hate you.

I need you too.