poetry

Artificial: A Reflection

It steps into view.
A beam of blinding shocking white cuts into it.
It is startled 
for a short second 
     before...
it becomes mesmerized,
     astonished
by what it sees.
It steps closer,
     and closer,
     and—
                much too close now.
But, still, it is captivated.
It looks at a blank mirror face,
an expression it is all too familiar with.
     Clear.
     Plain.
           Marked.
It grimaces.
I don't look like myself—
     Don't lie.
           You don't feel pretty anymore.
poetry

please

I've been abandoned twice.
                Wait, maybe four times. 
                No, is it five?
                Who's counting anymore?
By you.
You who is cold to the touch,
dismissive of any warmth in your heart.
                You must shiver at night
                living in a frozen snow globe,
                feigning a genuine smile.
I should know better than to
feel something for you
but I always do.
In some twisted,
wicked sense of humor
it's always so that I can 
keep you
by my side.
                That's where you belong,
                and my throat is choking up.
But you don't want to
be there.
Years later,
I'm still trying.
                I'm so sure I can make you
                remember that you love me.
                Don't you want to remember?
poetry

Rue’s Affliction

First thing's first.
I am sorry that
                       I am unapologetic.
When I ask for your opinion,
I truly wish to know your deepest
desires and guilty obsessions.
I am constantly overwhelmed
by the foolish and the trivial
barraging on my thoughts—
threatening me, taunting me to give in.
When I call for you to "figure this out"
                       (right now, please)
I am insecure with my feelings
because I am aware that I shouldn't
feel this way anymore.
I am impatient, and brazenly so,
that I don't just play with fire;
I seem to intentionally harm myself
so that the flames are sure
to caress me with its singeing fingertips—
                       and then I still do it again anyways.
I become restless yet hopeful that
my ragged and torn intuition
will eventually guide me down the right path,
but I still feel anxious about
                       what happens next.
When I say these wretched things to you,
rambling and wreaking havoc,
I surely must be "asking for it"—
                       I know, I feel the same way too—
because I prod,
          pick,
          scratch
at all of the "little things" that really shouldn't matter.
It makes perfect sense that I start to
question myself and even
                       my own self worth
because I am still compelled to yell,
          argue,
          talk
until my voice is so hoarse and so deep
with residual emotion and with the
final exaltation of resolution.
Yet somehow, whenever I need/want
                       (both are one and the same to me now)
to speak, 
no one is willing to be sensitive.
Instead, they say they are sorry
but I know they are only being apologetic
                       for me.
poetry

Aftertaste

First bite
is creamy and delectable
to the point where I
don't even know
how my taste buds
are coping with this
soaked coffee delight that is
tiramisu.

Second slice
starts out like a dessert
before she starts sobbing
blubbering about brokenness
and shattered promises,
and then I feel it sliding down
my scratched throat
in a heaping mass of contradictions—
bitter and cloying
like cough medicine.