Scribble Me Words

Why? Why does she find joy in him, Yet feel a quiet weight in her chest? Why does she look for his messages, Only to dismiss the feelings they stir? Why does he offer happiness, Then pull it away without a word? Why does he draw her in, Only to leave her standing on the edge? Why does she care for him, While he cares for someone else? Why does she smile for him, When her own joy feels out of reach? Why does she wait, As time slips by unnoticed? Why does she hold onto something, When she knows it leads nowhere?

Image Credits: Pixabay When humanity ceases to exist. When the earth screams in silence.  When the last flames slowly die out. When the wails of anguish can no longer be heard. When we're either on the side of Hitler or the Jews, When innocents perish along with the wicked.  When the stench rises, rotting corpses and bones, And every inch of this planet is a warzone. When the last woman has been raped by uniforms, When the last man has been mutilated, his eyes in his hands, When the last baby has been poisoned by our chemicals, And the last air raid siren fails to prevent death.  When we've stormed every country like Vlad, When we've driven every person to Auschwitz, When we've blessed every land like Hiroshima, And when we've carried out our Unit 731 experiments, Then we can lie in joyous repose. When we've annihilated our kind, and everything around us,  When the last man has driven his poisonous stake into his own heart, When mankind has warred itself into ob...

Image Credits: We Heart It The looking glass had been there for years,  Its foggy glass, a picture of distortment, Its ghoulish air, had poisoned her, Trapping within itself, the disfigured girl of eighteen.  She'd been living in that mirror,  A year less than ten, That glass of judgemental looks and polluted haze,  Had coated her in too strong.  Nobody looked at that disfigured girl of eighteen, Her breath never mingled with any other.  Her downcast eyes never found another's, They never even found themselves.  She'd never been good enough, She'd been their friend, Then there were the whispers so loud,  She'd begun to call them the gospel.  She'd never giggled at their jokes,  They said she'd grown big for her boots when she spoke up.  They said her clothes made her old and she,  She wasn't cool like them. Then those whispers became shouts, and she began to pray to them.  Her Mrs. Trunchbull body, Her golliwog appearance,...

I need to rid myself of you, To stop the pulse of you in my veins— Before it settles too deeply, Before it stains my soul. Your presence lingers, Tightening in my throat, A quiet pressure I can’t shake, Pulling at the quiet parts of me. I must let you go— You, whose gaze never finds mine, Whose words fall distant, A spell I can’t break. I need to unlove you, This love that winds through my chest, Familiar, yet foreign— I don’t want it, But here it stays, uninvited. I cannot be bound to you, But still, I am.