A Perpetual Existence: A Collected Work of Poems and Verse

Cyanide

You reek like a poison.

You are not pretty.

There is not a faint whiff

of almond tracing the

path of your putrid

perfume

—a crumpled cookie from

the bottom of

Grandmother's tin.

The apple doesn't

fall far from the tree,

and you are the rat

succumbed to its curse.

Although the vermin

is you, she is the prey.

Praying to get away

from the suffocating

scent of your racing

heart.

Obey her. Because

without her, you are

nothing.

You are not a diamond

littered in a field of

whimsical confetti.

You are not the gold

plated juice fallen

from the apricot,

sliced open

solely for the pleasure

of your mortifying mind.

You are invisible.

Looking for a reason to

exist. Looking to pass

your pain onto an

unsuspecting soul.

An object. A doll.

You want to be the

air which courses

through her veins,

the thing that makes

her weak

but Peaches,

you

are the weak one.

A puff of smoke

doesn't do it

anymore, or maybe

it's in your jeans,

but the picture

is clear.

You are sick

of being pestered.

Terrified of being

labeled as something

you're not.

You have a headache,

but all she wants to do

is look up at the stars

without the sky falling

down on her.

She wants to go to

sleep at night without

the rats clawing at

her covers.

She wants to breathe.