We are the girls with gut-wrenching
pain,
paralyzed by our own voices,
fingers that move across typewriter
keys,
typing out everything we can't say out
loud
to a world that doesn't want to hear
our cries for help.
The dreamers,
the long-haired beauties reaching for
infinity.
Papers and pens and words that spill
out of our fingertips with reckless abandon.
The day the world ends is a day we'll
all write about until the stars explode,
one after another,
right to left the skies will dim until
the endless darkness swallows everything,
the giant balls of nitrogenous fire
disappearing with a flick of the wrist.
Running, running,
trees that fall when no one can hear
them,
(Do they make a sound?
Do they make a sound?)
Gravestones that feel like oceans,
Gravestones that feel like oceans,
graveyards in the center of galaxies,
skeletons in the closet combusting with
the force of an atomic bomb.
The end of the world is just another
dot on the timeline of infinite youth.
Invincible, and pale-skinned,
girls that don't understand the meaning
of 'no',
because we'll do whatever it takes just
to get to the day that tells us who we are
and where we're going.
Yeah, we're independent,
we don't need a male to help us survive,
but we do need a boy to kiss our lips,
and tell us everything will be fine in
the dark hours of the early morning
when insomnia takes our breath away,
and the panic sets in
and we'll wonder why we're even here in
the first place.
He'll kiss the pale wrists,
kiss the feathers drawn there,
whispering breaths,
saying:
“Remember this, remember this,
the secret to life, the universe, and
everything:
Eve fell for the apple first.”
Shaking hands.
Forever Yours,
Rachel.
