Pitiful pity.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Pity with a dash of dry humor.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

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Submitted: April 01, 2008



She kept creeping up on me with these nostalgic responses;
holding her hypothetical, homemade, paper mache noose
between her fingers like glue, contemplating human restraint
and asking me, "Do you think I could be death proof?"

Jesus; she just sat there in front of me,
putting on its last few touches by her bedside.
Innocent enough as an attempt to comb
her story time, golden locks with sugar cane laces of mace;
afraid one day I'll find her on MyDeathSpace or on the evening news.
I spruced up the conversation a bit with unnecessary compliments;
got shot down quick by a girl so narcissistic and cutthroat,
she asked me to proofread her own suicide note.

There were more errors than the barriers between us;
sturdy barricades to match each word running on her renegades,
displaying sharp blades and paraphrases loosening her self-worth.
Standing in her halfway dug grave;
my hands were filthy with her own personal downgrade of dead earth.

Most people stop being genial by this point.

But it was her own white lies that seeped easiest into my skin;
her hairpins even wearing death better than she was wearing her hairpins.
I was sickened.

Breathe into the receiver.

Dial 911.


"Which layer hurts you most today?"
Next time, don't use so much glue.
Pity attracts jet lag hearts
and runs right through soft spot,
impartial, self-targeted boycotts.

There's no winning the jackpot
when it comes to you.


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