She is November, her hair a soft auburn of colors that frame her face like Van Gogh had created her, she glides across landscapes and tries to paint her heart with warm colors.
She is November, in her footsteps that will soon be covered with fallen leaves and forgotten in a matter of time, and her eyes look like the sky on a crisp, starry night.
She is November, constantly being looked over and walked over, as people await and excite over her best friend, December. So she sighs, and she falls, quietly onto the pavement of her childhood road, she was dying, but god, she was beautiful.
they say that pain
is only in your mind.
when my feet hurt
from wondering through life,
tip-toeing on broken glass,
my mother tells me to
pinch my arm,
it will distract me from
the blood stain that my foot left.
when I was stabbed in the back,
the knife lunged me forward,
breaking me down to hands and knees.
when I first skinned my knee
running around the playground,
my teacher told me to be more careful.
my mothers words reflected in hers.
I pinched my arm.
I broke my arm when I was little.
my mother was terrified,
but I was just staring at my arm,
the blood om my wrist,
the bone escaping my skin.
I pinched my thigh.
when the pinching wasnt enough,
I turned to the mental aspect of pain.
if I diatract my brain,
my aching heart will go away.
I finished a bottle of liquor.
but when that wasnt enough,
I flashed to the day I broke my arm.
I was so fasinated with the blood.