Paper Airplanes

You challenge an innocent being:
Chasing her soul on the wall her shadow fell upon,
she beckons to run far ahead,
but she hid in the mist of your making: an illusion of your trickery.
She coughs up you only to be breathing you again,
thick and heavy, devouring in you – pounds of your opium embedded inside her.

You drown her in gases, synthetic poetry:
It makes her go numb,
up and down her red and blue veins,
dumb on the brisk of cold frost on grass tips as
mountains tips only croon towards her, leaving her hanging on a cliff,
falling, then flying to heaven – only to have you shake her out of the clouds again.

You scorch heroin into her, dictating her vision:
Blinded by truth violated by your words, exposed in a mirror,
Her heart limps, throats sore, bruised lined skin, slit throats
dried lips to alcoholic kisses,
an aching body left on the bottom emotional shelf.
Passive, Aggressive: Murder – Inability to grieve, Inability to receive…

Bombarded her with paper airplanes, love notes:
her flesh being imprinted with dropping spitballs,
carrying jokes dark as the bags under her eyes –
dark as the memories they may possess.
Pulses quickening towards a swift, sick conclusion of humor,
erupting World War because

You were afraid to tell her you loved her.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, Paper Airplanes