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Road Maps

Road Maps

By A. StewartPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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I am pale flesh against the skin of the dead

Veins cross me like the crowded street maps of the city

white intersections

red stop sign lines across arms and thighs

I put the Himalayas on my back for you

stop lights, stop signs

the colours of broken hymens

My stomach became a deep sea trench for you

for you, the shit stained dead not yet washed

the soft caress of razor blades

guided by your touch

for you

I traced veins for you

I poured myself

over rims of porcelain

poured out

threw up my soul for you

And all you could do

Was tell me how blue my eyes looked when I cried,

To wipe the vomit from my nose and return to the party that was life.

gripping me in a smile so catastrophic

that my daddy would worry and tell me I was beautiful in hopes that I would come home to him a little girl again!

He never says it anymore.

But then again,

Porcelain turned to side streets and front lawns

It turned into lullabies sung behind the school yard popping pills and smoking cigarettes wondering

Where am I?

Your smile turned into a face I never saw anymore, but felt pressed up against my spine, my Himalayas,

and I used to hide that razor blade behind the battery in my phone because no one would ever look there,

And they didn't

hospitals never looked there,

I have traced the maps of my city,

the red stop signs, stop lights,

the red of broken streets and intersections and hymens

I have traced them to the bone

Until I threw away the road map.

and constructed a new soul for myself in the extra curricular art class out of construction paper and scotch tape

because that was all that was available for the moment

and I was too shy to ask for the glitter

I no longer trace road ways

I no longer kiss porcelain or look around and whisper 'Ana'

I no longer kiss the lips of the shit stained dead looking for another fuck to kill

I no longer ask my daddy if I am beautiful!

A while ago,

I found a razor blade hidden behind a battery

I ran it along my finger tip, along ridges and off mountain terrain before I looked away from the road map

And finally threw something worthwhile away.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

A. Stewart

I am a YA author living on the West-Coast of Canada.

Find my book reviews at: wonderbreadreads

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