no point in sobriety.

No point in hiding the self-inflicted bruises.
Take a walk, a third walk around the block.
No point in touching someone else,
Stop stop the thoughts won’t stop.
No point in talk, analysis,
this heart will hurt this heart so hurts.

Born without delivery.
Fostered by a ghost.
Memories of Christmas on a hot day in July,
evidenced,
but impossible to restore.

I am just a helpless schoolgirl,
drawing a heart around a name on the cover of my binder,
over
and over
again.

2 Responses

  1. I really hate when I try to post a poem to facebook or myspace and it totally messes up the breaks and spacing and whatnot, because that is very key to reading. Here’s my half-compliment: it reminds me of modern poetry, even though I despise modern poetry because I wish I could be that modern. So half-congrats!

    Like

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