#fake #alone #flowers #roses #fear #plastic #alive #image #perfection

Plastic Roses

I have at times a plastic face with perfectly manicured eyebrows

and emerald 2D eyes

and a smile plastered on with red choking lipstick that never fades


I sometimes have skin that melts under the sun

its elasticity burning away,

simmering under the yellow sun,

distorting face and limb


I have at times a back set ramrod straight,

my spine sealed with silicon and makeup that curves its way through my vertebrae with such care as to not jostle my prone and weathered nerves


I sometimes have rose petals for eyes and thorns in my mouth,

my sculpted lips bracing with poisoning acrylic and snapping with venom at those who skate too close to hard and smooth skin


I have at times plexiglass tears and dull silicon fingers that scratch at my skin trying to tear my soft petal words out of my rosy throat so I may never give way again to razor nails and eyes that pull at my leaves


In my mind a maze full of thorns and melting paint makes its way through my crevices,

bleeding into my lungs and suffocating my roses that once flourished in sweet sunlight


In my stomach an abrasive hate grows,

its vines reaching into my throat and seizing it with hard plastic,

forcing it to spit out the same careless words of anger and sadness


In my feet an ache settles,

creeping its way through my body and searing itself into my bones with the force of the blazing melting sun and first winter’s snow,

shimmering with time wasted and dead flowers


In my skin there is a thrum like the sound of trees dying in fall as I crash to the ground,

tearing my stems and petals and leaves out so as to save what is left of me,

crying for water as the sun melts me into the stony ground


In my ears only silence greets,

punctured by my lackluster breathing that grows weaker as my petals fall and my ribs turn to plastic,

freezing my pale heart once brilliantly red


As my aches and pains grow,

as I harden and melt under the sun,

as my thorns sharpen and my flowers wilt,

as I am surrounded by noise and dreams and wishes and curses and silence,

as I am lost inside a body that loses its will and its cares with such delicacy,

dying from subtle blows of its own making,

I still struggle to hold my roses close,

still trying to inhale their scent as they solidify into plastic perfectly sculpted

Author's Notes/Comments: 

First poem posted in a year, yay!

View doctorwhogirl10's Full Portfolio