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Wash Away

By Gillian Presto

Never take life seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyways. - Anonymous

Inside Out The expensive jewelry That drips down your neck, Looks like frozen tear drops That have mistaken your neck for your face. The internal bruises knot themselves Tightly around the circle of your eyes, Like a light bulb with no lampshade, Standing out from anywhere. No convincing is needed, For this girl is broken, Broken internally and soon outwardly With a dark, dingy cloud hanging above her head.

Life is a rose, beware of the thorns. - Unknown

Bloody Roses The red rose rises rightfully As the color creates cruelty. The touch of the rose is so severe That a millimeter within linger Creates great, grimy gashes Along the first fore finger. As one looks inside, Endless layers of ravishing, red rose petals appear, But the pain of the rose is Like a shocking, slimy slash of a sphere. The stench of the rose Belligerently, bodily belittles Any person on the planet Like venom, vial victuals. Your beauty hurts my eyes, Like your smell hurts my nose, You’re a poisonous little thing, Aren’t you, bloody rose?

Diamond Stars Stars are like diamonds Because “diamonds are forever.” An endless reach away, A lion’s belt today, A star on a special day, A glimpse into the Milky Way. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.” They glisten in the night, Like diamonds On a wealthy woman’s neck. “They won’t leave in the night, I have no fear that they might desert me.” They’re up so high, Out of reach, But they share countless dreams, Of your dreams of diamonds. The stars form to shapes of diamonds, And quickly you try to reach and grab one. You fail to achieve your diamonds, But the stars comfort you, And keep you company.

Holes Inside The unworn lace Lurks into the nest Of the forbidden, Deep into the gashes And bruises That align the plaster Against the wall. I trail my finger On the lace in the walls Searching for the black room With the cracked plaster. The plaster is the bad times. The head on the wall, tears flowing Then head locked in the knees, Black and white kind of movie. It crumbles, Crumbles to the floor. The lace is the cracked plaster. The holes create holes in souls. Breaking the rips in the lace, Cracking the plaster.

To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. -Thomas Campbell, Hallowed Ground

I remember the hazy, glassy eyes, That I couldn’t see out of. the flashbacks, The haunting inkwell motions, The guilt of the panic and blame Eating every goodness of cells Inside alive. The invisible stranger watching Like a black and white movie. The crash onto the floor, The dried black circles. But yes, I remember. I don’t remember those happy memories That drained out of the body Into a locked jar like Pandora’s story. I don’t –

Wash Away  

Chapbook by Gillian Presto

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