Deprivation

by cerissadival

Written March 24th,2014, two days before my brother’s birthday. I remember faintly that I couldn’t sleep this night and I was writing a 2 in the morning, knowing I would have to wake up in a few hours for school.

her mind gives her no mercy tonight,

her makeup the tan of weeping

raspberries,skin baked in icy veins and bone scraping pain

what a heated heart of absorbed moonlight and the night’s yellow dust she hides.

long streets,pouring rouge and thick clouds, throat peeling screams.

burning tears rise to the ashy red road of capillaries in her eyes

behind walls of thin ribs, a cage of flowing happiness

snow cakes the spaces between her toes,the vulnerable holes in her chest.

bleeding beauty,yelling hopelessness.

dirt and dry mud paint the crevice of her toenails

oh what a beautiful brain she holds,

the juices she pumps in her veins, the ones that sting and sizzle on the warmth of her insides

a crumbling body melting like drenched wood at the heart of a crackling fire.

piles of ice steam away as they fall to her surface.

kissing her bruises, the colors that make her build the artist’s canvas.

feeling and losing the ability to feel,

soaked in numbness,

afraid of the suspenseful fear that flourishes within her.

chipping away at the strength of her heart

her thoughts run on novacane tonight

sweet,sweet novacane.

spilling,curling in folding waves

tumbling over and under,

failing to find stability beneath her.

starving for love and open arms.

abundant blanket of miniscule bumps creeps to her outer layer.

the moon’s messages swaying around her wrists and ankles,

painting a picture of loosely tied ribbons around her pale body.

shes coming to a dead end of cloudy dirt roads and unlit alley ways.

a shortage ending her stash of colorful juices that embrace her bones.

alley ways where the homeless kiss the world goodnight,

where the click of gun’s play.

the tires run cleanly beside her,

the engine roaring at her heels,

aware of his presence but keeps her empty eyes set on the miles ahead.

“Do this.””Little one,the rent is due.””Little one, you’re okay.””Little one,do this.”

the tap her heels sing ceases to dance with the pebbles of the deteriorating pavement.

pivet.

pop of the door.

what a beautiful,horrendous routine.

the warmth of her seat embeds in her cracks and flushed cheeks.

“Just the hour little one, just the hour.”

oh how powerless she feels.

a prisoner to her own will.

The curls bounce around the sharpness of stinging eyes like hers.

lips pierced with tightness.

fragile and shedding.

the snow melts under the tips of her fingers.

one button. two buttons. undone.

“ you’re okay, little one.”

after a corrupted heaven falls under the minutes carrying tired seconds,

the smell of raw money in the palm of her hand gives her might.

to sell her dignity for a piece of warm paper that has more worth that she ever will feel.

for a pillow. “please, a bed.”

tears fall from her grey eyes that hold hideous photos.

forming roads streaming over the ruby rouge that has brought purity to her face.

unaged but slightly tattered.

for once, she needs a grip that will hold her sorrow and squeeze her tight in love, not pleasure.

she needs what she wants and barely wants for what she needs.

but a string of pride and untouched hope ties a ring around her neck.

to be loved,not lost. beautiful, not a toy. independent, not a sample.

the pills look to the sun by morning from her hands.

right hand, pills. left, the burn of cold vodka.

swing,swoosh,swallow.

“Little one, you’re okay.”