It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms
It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces
of your heart
that you don't yet understand
It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave
It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 3:44 AM UTC
Purity and righteousness poached
Black and White, were his preferred colors
His discomfort; alleviated mine,
for a little while,
he let me know when it was necessary again;
restraints juddering on the copper
I examined his naked anatomy,
under an iridescent light, contusions and
lacerations of periwinkle and cobalt ribbons
patterned the surface, maturation, biology,
eliminated the evidence
yet, the specters had set out to
permanently engrave his anguish on the
forgotten mausoleum walls of his amygdala
His ravenous mouth, was a trough
digesting slices of caked soot,
teeth stained of brilliant grey from
yesterday’s regurgitated rations;
Indeed, the same meal that his autocrat
and waif orphan caregivers were fed,
a recipe handed down from generations past,
for they knew no better
I fed his gluttonous jaws candied
morsels of glazed guilt,
as gleaming as the silverware that
was used to nourish him
The feeding spoon projected a
warped image, enough to reveal my reflection,
obscured, my face wry, confused and odious
I looked away
The frosted ground met the sun that day in March,
summoning the resurrection of all that was dead,
the long slumber was coming to an end
Uncomfortable, and terrified
I returned to see him, his face reflected mine
I listened, I understood, I forgave
Liberated and no longer concealed,
the child left peacefully in the
tranquility of spring
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 10:10 PM UTC
Clanking his tired copper bowl
absurdly on the dry pine
a frosty reminder that hidden in the
dark dank garret of my abode
where the yawning, sloped
ceiling met the filthy crooked floorboards,
he occupied a sliver of cramped space,
amongst the boxes of forgotten Kodak's,
a hollow where the truth was
free to sit and rest a while
Fragments of blinding bone white
and Tuscany yellow sought refuge
for half days, illuminating dusty
trunks filled with the
keepsakes of my juvenescence
Intimate company, nothing more
than transient guests, were
distracted by my warm and
inviting home, oblivious
to the sequestered occupant
in the above
Skylights softly guiding the
tangerine glow into
the wool fabric of the
boorish night
The facade was festooned with
baby’s breath and lavender that
dangled from freshly painted arches
cloaking the rot beneath
Rusted, wind chimes played
off key sonnets for the lesser rabble,
who danced where the
woodland greeted the blue
Inside, heavy fall linens were
folded square, the perfume of
yesterday’s respite lingering,
a strident reminder that, all things,
even love, ceases to exist after
perpetual misuse and
changing seasons
Ninety-degree angles issued a decree,
demanding a strict alignment of all the
handsome trinkets, widgets, and gizmos
that defined me, placated me,
if only for a breath, filling the space
between empty brass picture frames
on the dust free mantle
Mutual secrets were held captive
behind pursed lips
Fearful of callous abandonment,
I predict his return from the
vile, decrepit part of my home,
where he sleeps
When the jubilant laughter of
my guests would break the
lonely apprehensive silence,
his boisterous uneven footsteps
would protest his confinement
and send them away
I am left alone with bottled potions,
worn out diamonds and
stationery inked with
words of dissolution
Once again, he reminds me that,
I am home, an abandoned widower,
comfortable in my attic of pine
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 5:30 PM UTC