september in a bell jar

(a collaboration with amanda a.k.a. sandalwood in allpoetrydotcom)

the toenail moon resembles a half-bitten apple that someone threw into a dumpster and the briquette stars catapult like jersey needles in the pincushion sky. though, just like the pressed flowers in handmade spiral-bound notebooks, all i have gotten left are pamphlets of yesterday's memoirs. torn up pages of my past still haunt me in my sleep because even when my origami eyes are firmly shut, i can still glimpse a miasma of ancient visions that are better left alone.

the ruins of a teenage existence are scattered through the hallways of this hospital. it hurts to breathe because of the obituaries written inside my lungs, the angry red stitches rising and falling like an ocean wave beneath my ribcage. there is a chasm of blackness behind these closed eyes. i can feel their touch, their presence, their forehead kisses that are so fragile, it's like i'm a sparrow with broken wings.

i can barely recognize the time, whether if it's day or night since they're inconspicuous in the yellow crime scene tape wrapped around these murdered moments but then, i remember. the nightmares. the seroquel pills. the overdose. how the epitaphs of dead poets burned a hole through my memory.

there is so much i recall in this atramentous cage i call a mind, this sharp twist lined with barbed wire. i am reminded of those dreams, the dreams that started out as red-brown canyons caving into each other like angled cricket legs and morphed into what hides in summer's rain shadows. i remember his green eyes sporadic as his throat constricted, and when he fell, the clouds opened up and sang a faint hosanna for him, this hymn that stretched over the mountaintops. and then, when he took his last breath, i fled.

his dying eyes flash like a silhouette behind my blackened eyelids. pain runs through my knuckles, the little gravestones lining my hand, and i don't want to see those spiderweb eyes crying out for mercy ever again. i am sinking towards the bottom, a dead weight in the sea. i can feel the sand grazing beneath my fingertips. there is a pool of fish gliding through my hair like antennae standing proudly in the air, and i feel myself drifting downwards until i feel her hand on mine. i rested in her womb for nine months. i would know her touch anywhere. and now, this ocean is stifling me, pulling me down, and i want to come back. i am swimming to the surface, windmilling as fast as i can with these flimsy arms.

so, do not let paper mache ghosts suffocate the roses that are radioactive against the pumpkin sunlight, similar to the stain of hand-picked japanese peaches. september bears a resemblance to the russet-brown leaves that fall from the umbrella trees, they lay dead and forgotten against the pavement.

the hardest part is letting go of your dreams.

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note:

the hardest part is letting go of your dreams...

~ sleep by my chemical romance