deepundergroundpoetry.com

Volatile First Time.

The words that spring to mind cut the silence with a plastic knife,
this pink plastic knife
and Rags hides his head, beneath the pillow on my bed whilst the other disappointed toys run from my room and hide.
You do this so constantly, make us put on a facade to the world,
yet I am ebony and plum beneath the long sleeved shirt.

You throw the first punch, as you always have,
losing your temper with me over some silly comment I made.
"It was out of line. I'm sorry."
and although it's sick catching your hand feels like a ninja's work
whilst my CD player blares out another screaming sequence. 

The noisier the boys in the band the better it gets, for you.
We are the Rubix cube no one can fix.
You throw another hit and it's hands over head, legs pulled in, eyes on the ground, keep your eyes on the ground.
My stomach the playdough your fist forms around.
You are the fire and I am the remains.

I wait for the next BB gun bullet or witty remark on my weight
whilst mine are the screams on the metal album through the night.
You tug me with this hollow, expectation-filled passion back to the memory foam of my pit.
We watch films, that you choose, under the covers until it gets light
and I forget before, only to shower and realise, that this really is a reality.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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