Drowning in Blue

Dangerous blues,

tormenting eyes,

a wet


which was told lies: “I love you”. A cold


awaiting death. She poisoned my heart

with sugar lips and false happiness. My chest a blue

cavern. My insides hollow and cold.

I think of her eyes

and a tear runs down my face.

A salty taste between my wet

lips. Soaking wet,

like my drowning heart.

Sinking in the image of her face,

in her enthralling blue


Her waters unbearably cold,

overflowing from my chest. Pouring from my cold



dripping waters to the rhythm of my heart.

My heart beat until it was made of only purples and blues.

The beat of Blues music so sweet, so sorrow. No sugar smile left on my face.

I’m haunted at the thought of her face,

at how it brings me pain on cold

vibrant blue

nights. The air wet 

quivering with longing, a moisture made of my heart’s

regrets: “I love you too”. The night’s twinkling eyes

see how she hurt me. They know that her lies, her eyes,

are something I cannot bare to face.

Her words rockin’ me to sleep with sugar sweet lullalies. This heart-

ache never ends. Make her stop singing! The cold

snow falling around me. I’m being buried in this frozen wetness

that I cannot escape from. Staring up at blue

memories filled with sorrows and sympathetic twinkling eyes. Cold

whiteness layering on my face. Engulfed by a wet

burning sensation until I feel nothing; my body frozen blue.

“I love you”….. her singing stops.

Pretty Blue

I found the pretty blue pen, which hides pretty dark things in pretty mediocre blue font. My pretty blue eyes hiding pretty blue lies with my pretty little smile that is shown everyone once in a while. Pretty lucky to be seen as so dang pretty. I should be pretty grateful for my pale skin and Barbie doll blonde hair. Perfectly shaded pink lips, but I have always hated perfection. So I bite them until pain screams in red. Pretty little white girl with the bleeding lip, with the bleeding heart, and with the bleeding soul. My blood drips from my eyes in clear drops. It vaporizes in my lungs, then leaves my mouth. My pretty little mouth. Good for one thing so down on my knees to satisfy his needs. He tells me I am pretty, so I must be pretty grateful. Pretty meaningful because the words of a man have always been made to determine a woman’s worth. A pretty world were being pretty is pretty much everything. So thank fucking God he thinks I’m pretty. Because if I wasn’t I’d be pretty useless and pretty ignored. Pretty unsuccessful in a world where looks are the only way to climb ladders except one. If I weren’t pretty I’d be pretty torn up in my head from the lack of value, which should have been found on my skin. But it wasn’t my skin. It was never my skin. Never me. If I weren’t pretty I probably hate myself. Probably be pretty suicidal. Probably be climbing that one ladder I can touch with my unwanted skin. A ladder up to the heavens gates. The only place where my unpretty might be accepted. Might. Might not. Maybe God himself would look at my pretty ugly face and send me down. Down to hell. Where my skin would burn off my bones and then I would finally be the same as everyone else. The pretty unperfect people. The pretty accepted people. Hell, the only place where an ugly person may belong.