Beautifully Forgotten
it was the way she smiled
It was the way she smiled
that reeled me in
Her cheeks swelled
with blotches of red
Crimson dripping
from her tremoring lips
Tear trickled from
her eyes and
fell into the cuts
on her chin
But it was the way she smiled
that stole my breath away
It was beautiful
in a forgotten sort of way
Barefoot in
muddy puddles
under streetlights
Or sitting on
dirty sleeping bags
against old brick walls
She smiled with
neglect and sorrow
shimmering in her eyes
I could see
her broken pieces
in her tears
The words she never said
hung off her lips
She looked like a ghost
under the moonlight
And it was beautiful
in that forgotten sort of way
Because they'd forgotten her
left her behind
to crumble and rot
But she had only become
even more beautiful
About the Creator
L. J. Knight
I'm the girl who writes poetry in coffee shops, who walks the halls with a book under her nose, lost in her thoughts. I'm the girl with the quiet voice and the smart eyes, the one who dreams for the moon and hopes to land among stars.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly8 days ago in Horror
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