"I once fell in lovewith a girl whose handswere stained in black and blueink from soaking her..."

“I once fell in love

with a girl whose hands

were stained in black and blue

ink from soaking her palms

in poetry lines, trying to feel

the meaning within the verses

of hopeless romantics words

to see if it was actually as

sincere as they said.

Her mouth bled out black

from trying to digest all of that

pretty. She wanted to be seen

as a sonnet of love, but only

ended up sick from falsity

that rested inside of their

so called truth. She craved

creativity, sucked on the nectar

of forgivable fruit in hopes

that she could someday

be forgiven too. But no one

ever told her how much she

would have to eat to be cleaned

of her sins, to be free

of the life that she did not

create for herself. So every

night after her mother tucked

her into her bed, she would

slip from the chain of covers

and inhale the scent of hopeful

rhymes, and imagine herself

caught between the dreams

of a better tomorrow

and a more promising

kind of poetry that had the power

to show her how beautiful

her insides really were.”

- "Her own kind of genre," - Colleen Brown