The time’s time, ready set:
what makes you stronger
(and floods in regret?)
The tougher you get
(I’m just not ready yet!)
Time’s twelve tools, he coughed
You’re going nowhere
You’re just too soft
Get out of it
he’s not your
enemy
I’ll hate any-bandaged-body
Who feels
nothing?
Indifference kills the devotee
He who accepts indifference’s spikes: he loved you!
and knew what loving was ultimately like
For that much, he loved you
in the name of self improvement
I’m not ready for sacrifice
That kind of sacrifice
the cruelty is unimaginable
Distanced viewer to gracelessly send:
Where do demons go
when all those desperate lovers could sleep
in the house of their lord?
Self restraint does not
commend
a god who watches all die similarly
How can you not feel bad about it?
How can you not feel scared about it?
In that, it’s the loved ones who have it rough
[That’s enough, kid
you said enough.]
About the Creator
FIFE
The written word is everything. I love to read, and I love to write - primarily fiction and poetry, but I'm also psyched to learn about pretty much any topic and to share my expertise in music and music business.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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