stack the knives and blades,
with their sharp, bloodthirsty
edges, into the furnace,
and burn the flame high,
until all of it melts and flows;
then pour it in a mould of
a necklace and throw in
some shiny jewels;
give it to the girl who told
you a fortnight ago,
that she's in love with you;
slide it gently behind her
neck and lock-it with
her; then look into her
eyes, and gaze into them
until all of her melts
and flows; lastly, turn your
back on her and don't look
back, at all; hear her sob,
and bellow, but take the
first drive you see and
leave, don't ever see her
again—
hope is a double-edged
sword; weapons could
hurt you once, but
false hope could kill you
enough before you're
finally declared dead.
—zohiii

wash the gunpowder
off your body and
gulp down a cup of
bitter coffee;
put on a fine
black dress and wear his
favourite perfume;
make him write a poem where
he decorates his love
for you in fancy, artsy words;
let him plead, and then
go to the prom with him;
hold his hand, and whisper
in his ear, a promise—
of all the dances, and a kiss
under the mistletoe;
enter the hall
in your sheath gown,
and send him
off to get a drink;
kiss a guy you've slept
with before and then
another one in a dull tuxedo,
while he stands by the table,
with shards of
glass around him;
let them pierce his heart,
and leave behind wounds;
leave the party with the
prom king, and don't turn
back—

gunpowder could crack
the walls you can see,
but false hope
cracks the heart,
you can't.
—raika

@zohiii ����