Again, I’ve found myself wandering through deserted places that only I care about. Still whispering your name and the names of your flowers Maybe if I pour myself into them you’ll show your face and let me apologize some more. How many times do I have to say it to feel a little less of…
Here’s to you
Eat the guilt -Cover it’s taste with salt and old dreams Better bloody than dead, I’ll wash my hands of it again. Hold it at arms length, so I don’t cover myself with its fears Talking always of myself I I I so I can only blame myself later Holding heavy my shame and heartbreaks…
This is Water
I feel a creeping sense of my 17 year old self again. Ayn Rand and Neutral. How arrogant I was, but only on the inside. Timid a rat I was nothing to care about. No wonder you found another to confide in, I’ll think to myself, falling back into the worn patterns of self sacrifice…
Staggered
Do you recall, I spoke of splinters in fingertips and told you of the pain. Have you noticed how heavy the roots in my heart have grown? They shoot out in search of water or earth- but They haven’t found ground to sow in. chemical burns and My blood screamed at me, but I couldn’t…
Dioxin
It’s been seven days, and I am still unsure of my footing. Where does my seat lay within the confines of your space? Laugh with them, show them I, too, can dance the social call they seem to favour. What predator lays with prey and finds itself among friends?
Decency
I’ve saturated myself with sweat and suffering for 3 days straight. Rose water and cloves, to fill boiling water cups. Maybe this will work and take away that (deep-seated-something) and let me breathe, just enough for the vapours to make me smile.
3 words too many
Whisper them if you must- I know petty better than this. Avalanche and silence and nothing and broken words that I need to feel deeper than you can give. For now, you say anyway I’ll try and hold that declaration Pin it to my own cross. palms pierced blood as ink- blood as binding. My…
The price we pay
Azazel, Your tears flow so freely, does the crown on your head not weigh you down? What broken dream has sent you here again, to this place of mortal dread and insignificance. My yellowed prince- don’t tar your wings; you are already burning. Cinders may fly, but they are also dying.
Not Tridents
One two three Four I feel them Flowing from the outside Into me, My skin. What happens when my flesh Is more metal Than skin, When I resemble the dog Covered in ticks But in metallics.
moribund
Broken by names of your flowers; I fell- into some place where light can’t touch the wounds you left me from your fathers hands years after they were made into one. So where do we go from here, I hear you screaming again, of flowers and poison pollen, but i am afraid I cannot bend…