Lies and suicides

This poem is fictional -
I did not slice through my heart,
the jealousy didn't spill like sweet nectarine
for you to lick off my skin.
I did not look into the mirror
and crumple the redness of my lips
into the shape of a paper flower.

I did not die tonight

but I should have, I should have
split the fruit, made orange juice;
spilled the sourness and dissolve my skin.

As I touch this make-belief acid,
I'm a leaking battery, waiting for explosion.
Kerosene, fire, make me glow at last.
I'm the concoction of sweetness and chemicals.
The drug behind depression.
Sweet, pitiful depression.

Make me glow.
Make me glow.

The blushing wasn't enough,
neon lights and technicolour,
those are the emitters of skin-deep flaws.
And so I must slice, slice,
light up my insides with fireflies.
My body is the brewing ground of larvae
and tiny feet; I can feel its tickling
as the anxiety kicks in.

Thud thud.
Thud thud.

An itch beneath my chest, beneath my heart.
Thud crash. Thud crush.
Crush those crispy feet till their poison seeps within.

I am delusional. This poem is fictional.
I did not slice.
I did not die tonight.

29/12/2015
04:02 AM