B.R.aye-are Rose
They say that when a thorn pierces your skin it then slowly makes its way up into your bloodstream, and through your bloodstream to pierce your heart. With the number of brambles around me, how romantic it would have been to pretend to be Briar Rose, but once upon a time I had to settle on the nettle to not need to bleed. There was just enough pressure for baby tips and I’m waiting for them to ride my veins and prick me into sense, and awaken me to announce there is no prince.
It is the thought of loving someone that helps me sleep, and I sleep in the hope of a dream that I am loved back.
But the reality that they don’t keeps me awake, and if only I knew better ways to lie to myself without chemicals.
If I was such a good liar I would sleep for a hundred years waiting for someone to cut the brambles and wake me up. But as it is past the time of sucking water out of stones I am sucking bullets for good lies, the cold dull metal of bullets loaded into aimless tinfoil guns in heap of Arsenal, crinkling and uncrinkling them in the house of ladybirds and masks.
It is the thought of loving someone that helps me sleep, and I sleep in the hope of a dream that I am loved back.
But the reality that they don’t keeps me awake, and if only I knew better ways to lie to myself without chemicals.
If I was such a good liar I would sleep for a hundred years waiting for someone to cut the brambles and wake me up. But as it is past the time of sucking water out of stones I am sucking bullets for good lies, the cold dull metal of bullets loaded into aimless tinfoil guns in heap of Arsenal, crinkling and uncrinkling them in the house of ladybirds and masks.