The headlights blur my existance
but I'm not moving from this fetal
position to the arms of your god
of whom I was never warmly accepted.
I'm sorry you won't understand this
in the morning, but this was never
meant to reach your ears or blind
your bluered eyes.
It's raining now and maybe
simultaneously someone is crying,
too. And maybe two souls are making love
under an azure morning sky while we
weep for what we choose to ignore.
The sun is closing in on me and I
can’t help but think of what beauty
was held behind the heart of the murder.
I’m sure he knew of warmth and love and I
know he studied hate and the art of the knife.
Don’t you understand?
This isn’t about you and me anymore
This is about the dirt beneath our finger
tips and the scenes that play themselves
out for us during the quietest hours
of the darkest nights.
We sleep on a bed of nails, sharp side up,
so we have something to complain about
in the morning as if our sorrow-ridden
lives weren’t enough.
Your hands are stained red with
guilt and you can wash them
until you bleed yourself but the words
are still painted across your face.
And to call you a liar wouldn’t be fair
to the injustices you have befallen and to
those you too have caused.
And I’m sure it’s you behind the headlights
And I hope you’re laughing because this
wasn’t supposed to distort your face.
I feel so out of place because you wrote
this like it was supposed to be you.
If this turns out beautiful I promise I’ll
blame it on you.
So take my hand and paint me into the
asphalt.
I hope it’s still raining when you’re done
It will be a pleasure to watch my colors bleed.

02/24/2004

Author's Note: this is what happens when i write my anger in ink..

Posted on 02/25/2004
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