Blanket of lightning bolts
There’s stars In my chest and they burn with such ecstasy, a poem that smells like autumn, a feeling I just can’t fathom. I want so badly to wrap my fingers around your ribcage, and pull out any dark entity, any shadow that sleeps inside of your head at night; filling you with nightmares. These demons they turn us inside out, they pull at every stitch and fracture, every already fragile bone that lives inside of us. I long to be a grey house, on the corner of the street where all the leaves are changing color, before anyone has taken time to notice them. Soon they will all have fallen, and the people with clouds in their veins and dreams attached to their finger tips will finally step foot out of their busy lives, and realize the life they carry around, like rain kept hidden in their pockets. But it will be too late, my leaves will all be wilted in a pile beneath the naked trees. If they’re lucky the moonlight will cover their rotting skin, and warm them like a blanket of lightning bolts. But still, it will be too late. It’s always too late.
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