Murdered, Murder, Murderer

So it turns out that the real murderer IS THIS GIRL WITH TATTOOS IN BLOTCHES OF BABY PINK ALL OVER HER FAIR VIRGIN BODY

And with eyes that no longer dance with glimmers of hope though dandelions still DARE to fall…[But she didn’t have the weapon you’d used to form flawless sins (by carving grotesque words that tongue of yours would wag about whenever her back’s turned) on the first layer of her skin] ‘Hey, why aren’t you uttering a single vowel? Your eyes look like they’ve been raped by a demonic soul. I wonder WHICH GHOST was it that murdered your sprightliness?’

Her silence,
Her black mazed thoughts so mysterious you had gotten lost in?
Or,
Was it her irreversible actions that blew you into pieces?

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7 thoughts on “Murdered, Murder, Murderer

      1. one feel for each read-through:
        it makes me feel like an empty, early morning street where echoes of teardrops sound from somewhere up ahead.
        it makes me feel like a ghost hovering above a sleeping body wondering how to approach the situation under me.
        it makes me feel dark, velvet purple with streaks of red.
        it makes me feel less like me and more like me.
        it makes me feel you may be the greatest poet i’ve never read but that’s my title and it makes me feel sad that if we have to battle over titles one of us might die and i imagine we both love being alive in equal amounts so don’t want to battle over titles and just want to drink whiskey instead.

        Liked by 1 person

  1. I don’t know. I don’t think I understand this poem, but I am reacting strongly to it. It stirred something deep below my ability to comprehend and had stolen my breath.

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