by Lyus M., 17
Can I detach my mouth from my face to get my point across?
If I were to open my eyes would the world be as burnt as I’d expect?
If this pencil was a microphone would the PA system even work?
Do I only lie to those I trust?
I guess you could say I’m an open book.
But that would mean that some of my pages are stuck together,
or ripped out,
or frayed so much you couldn’t read the words.
And even if you could, it’s in a different language that I,
the author,
don’t even know how to speak.
Man, the stories that my walls could tell.
Stories of betrayal,
of lust,
of drowning.
The books in my arms are divots in my walls.
If I were to rip the stitch and paste my lips
to a vessel other than my own,
it would be my bedroom wall.
But is there really a need when I’m a voodoo doll?
My room is the puppeteer,
and I can only move through acupuncture needles and marionette strings.
If I could even speak it would be distorted, in drop C,
and probably not sung by a man.
I continue to call myself a liar but,
I’m not being completely honest.
I’ve been lying for so long,
I’m ready to let my guts spill out like a waterfall.
I’m ready to flood my old house,
and then let it burn.
I’ll never go near the trigger or learn how to tie my shoes.
I promise to only hit things with drumsticks and to run in laps.
But if I were to get shot,
I know,
that there would be a heart shaped hole next to my pillow.
And it would whisper to me.
Denver, Colorado
Bridge Ink 