《the boys are gods》dandelion

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heads can't be wrapped round hearts so you untie yours

but it's hanging loose off of her shoulders now, and the girl doesn't even know she's carrying it. she can't feel it over the yellow backpack and red fishing rod. you haven't told her you can't catch anything good with those hands of yours. she tells you that she'll teach you

and you can't fathom how it got there in the first place

children don't go making crowns out of organs but with the dandelions growing by the back fence and when has love ever been so in reach?

and

why is it that her words feel like two hearts beating twice as fast in a birds chest. hummin like its mama came home with worm food

you're black bird and there's a marble water bath in the park that no one uses. more there to tell you your place is with the worms

I'm not sure you notice but her father and his friends look at you as you cross the street over to the towns convenience store.

and their eyes linger as you pull money from your pocket to buy three ring pops.

Two of which will end up on his daughters hand later in the evening, when she hides from home at six and ends up in the black girls garden.

Isn't all of this so played out? We've done this story before.

Girl pristine with girl dirt vulnerable, girl beautiful and girl ugly. girl angel and demon–deemed angel by demon girl.

Girl this isn't love.

and you aren't God.

you can't turn a man, or woman round for that matter

and your stomachs not bubbly coz of the way her shoulders soft

just never been so close to something you couldn't touch before

so when she gets into that fishing boat and takes your heart in hand and gets her sticky fingers round it with red gummy print on pink flesh–it's been moving like that for four days now and nothing can quell it but death and–

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when she ties it around her neck twice and promises that it'll never fall off again

don't be fooled.

you know better than to trust a promise like, I won't do anything stupid I swear, and I'll be home before eight and the skies blue cause it's my favourite and I love you higher than trees to climb

you only feel this way coz

she's found something that isn't hers

wrote her name on it with blue marker and brown blood

you got dandelions where something raw and beating should be and

this doesn't make you natural or closer to earth

less human. more green.

more sick

she's killing you

and you can't even feel it

nothing good grows from death.

and organs don't go round heads.

keep them in your body where no one can bend them

—

errraaahh!

when will this end?

each time I think I've found an end point my mind turns on me and I'm suddenly exhausted (over nothing) by thoughts and confused (beyond something) by the jumbling of them and I just idk man

really tired of this poetry thing

really want to experiment outside of it

really want to take advantage of this odd mood boost, this more talkative (well kinda) and self appreciating tam

so hey,

if u or a loved one know where this is going or if ya got any suggestions hmu, coz I'm crumblin here.

also? should this be a short story

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