This Is How Kingdoms Fall

Testing, testing, can I get mic check? Yo! I don’t know.

I’m tired of people talking like they might know me.

Looking at my love like maybe it isn’t enough; like maybe my beauty and my strength make them angry.

The red on my lips isn’t lipstick, it’s blood. Drawn from the mouths of everyone who has cared—hands half in the air, heart not really there, heads looking within. They don’t have a clue who I am, but they talk it.

Toast another fucking beer. Are you listening?

I sang a pretty song, wore a pretty skirt, damn. I guess I got the words wrong. I must’ve asked for it. Let’s have a real talk.

Empty parking lots with violent bodyguards—hear no evil, speak no evil, watch! Walk like the pain didn’t break me.

Officer, do you want me down on my knees for justice? Or should I just suck your cock? Are. you. listening?

This is how kingdoms fall, Y’all.

Kings treating queens like prisoners. Nooses strung up in the dark! Silence rooted in pain and we clap as we watch!

I won’t go. Do you hear me?

Fuck this charade. Let all the balloons float away. I will kill all of the roses to build my own hope.

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Need help? National Domestic Violence Hotline, 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE). National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255 (TALK). RAINN, 1-800-656-4673 (HOPE).

It’s A F*cking Joke

He’s leaving today, and I guess he’s the only one who gets to be a miserable little fuck about it.

His heart tied around his finger like he’s running to hope, it’s a fucking joke.

But he can’t hold is head up at five in the morning, and he hasn’t been able to type a real text for months.

It’s a fucking joke, the lies we tell ourselves when we’re half dead and headed for broke. Pretending other people aren’t holding the rope.

‘It’s a hard road and I’m tired and I need my family by my side!’ Like I wasn’t his family once.

Bloodless brothers and mothers and sisters, signing tombstones before the skin ever gets cold, it’s a fucking joke.

He’s leaving today and I guess he’s the only one who matters
different state, a different love.

The kind you can control as you shove it down someone’s throat and pretend you don’t know.

I’m sorry I can’t live up to your standards, Boo!
I got my demons in my pocket and they’re whispering lies.

They’re on my side, I do this for me, it’s not about you,
It’s none of your business.

Nope! And it’s a fucking joke.

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What It’s Like To Be A Writer

You’re waiting for poetry to spill from these lips,
sweet kisses like soft droplets of water.
I’ve nothing to offer.
These lying hands have retired their grip.
Drawn from wells of ink,
you feast, you don’t sip.
Douse the pages with gas, light a match
and pretend to read,
write another line like it’s the first time.
You don’t give a shit if the book can’t breathe!
But I carry the broken hands of the writer in my heart.
My soul and my lips never part.
I drew out my pain and you smeared it with dirt and solder—
lead in your lungs, down on your knees
begging me, “please, write another novel!”
You don’t know me.
Scatter my ashes among lonely trees, take another drink
look up to the Father,
affirm my sins like you’re more worthy than me.
What?
I’ve nothing to offer, but
sweet droplets of water,
broken hands around my heart, I can’t breathe.

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