The moon was red.
Everybody called it blood but
I thought it looked more like love,
yes, some days my coping methods
are pretty things, some days I
am not a pretty thing.
I ran into her in an alleyway,
stripped away everything true.
I told my mother I was fine.
It wasn’t a lie, I was damn fine,
with the legs, the hair, the eyes,
I was a forest fire.
My heart was a bullseye with
too many bullet holes, some days
my coping methods do the opposite of help.
Some days I want to run through
the streets with a shotgun taking out
every sign that says ‘dead end’,
because I need to feel
like I’m going somewhere.
Some days I’m not going anywhere.
Her heart was red. Everybody
called it love but I knew
it was all just blood,
just an art piece by God to turn
flesh into something we’d miss,
giving us heartbeats
so we’d know what it sounded like
to be alive, giving us a pulse
so we’d have something to look for,
some days I can’t find my pulse.
I always worry there’s nothing beating
inside of me, nothing blood or love just blue.
Just sorrow, just aching, just bruises
on bones with nothing real keeping me
upright, just smoke. Just smoke.
By A. Davida Jane
A. Davida Jane is a writer and student from Wellington, New Zealand who studies English Literature and Classics. She spends most of her time around words, from poetry, novels and essays to working in a bookstore, and can’t imagine ever not writing. Find more of her writing at wefragilehumans.tumblr.com