isobel-g - Hello Poetry

It's a feeling that I can never put my finger on, to seize its power with a name. It's that slight rhythmic delay in conversations on the phone, the footfall of our voices constantly just out of step. Moments that are almost inconsequential, but I keep picking at them in my mind like the loose skin of a hangnail. Thumbing at the thoughts in a way you tell yourself is harmless. Just a bit more... Only in an instant, it's all irrevocably undone. It's that bitter stone of doubt in your chest when there's a full stop instead of an "x". You can't help circling back to that seed planted in your mind earlier than you can ever remember, that it's you - fundamentally, objectively, intrinsically. Against your own better judgement, it's so easy to sink into the ruminations of inadequacy and psychological self-flagellation. How many more times must you feel this way? It's so familiar that you can almost detach. That every time you feel that sparkle of human connection, of being wanted for a moment, it's already waiting for you. You already know it's inevitable.

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Apr 28, 2025

Apr 28, 2025 at 9:41 AM UTC

Inevitable Failure

It's a feeling that I can never put my finger on, to seize its power with a name. It's that slight rhythmic delay in conversations on the phone, the footfall of our voices constantly just out of step. Moments that are almost inconsequential, but I keep picking at them in my mind like the loose skin of a hangnail. Thumbing at the thoughts in a way you tell yourself is harmless. Just a bit more... Only in an instant, it's all irrevocably undone. It's that bitter stone of doubt in your chest when there's a full stop instead of an "x". You can't help circling back to that seed planted in your mind earlier than you can ever remember, that it's you - fundamentally, objectively, intrinsically. Against your own better judgement, it's so easy to sink into the ruminations of inadequacy and psychological self-flagellation. How many more times must you feel this way? It's so familiar that you can almost detach. That every time you feel that sparkle of human connection, of being wanted for a moment, it's already waiting for you. You already know it's inevitable.

31

Lying, exposed, I've made myself A sacrificial lamb On the altar of The unmade bed. Time and again I offer myself To a merciless, wrathful God, a wolf, a serpent A blasphemous act Against my unclaimed heart. These are no Gods Towering over me, Only vultures picking me To scraps.

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Jul 8, 2024

Jul 8, 2024 at 7:15 AM UTC

Lamentation

Lying, exposed, I've made myself A sacrificial lamb On the altar of The unmade bed. Time and again I offer myself To a merciless, wrathful God, a wolf, a serpent A blasphemous act Against my unclaimed heart. These are no Gods Towering over me, Only vultures picking me To scraps.

15

I see two paths, two lives for myself - with him I am cast into an ocean of untamed feeling, lost to reason, and floating off into an unseeable future. With the other, I am held fast, held close by his love and burrowed deep into the earth; an old tree that twists faithfully growing strong and aging gently across the planes of a lifetime. How am I to love - who am I to be, to choose, to sink into. I feel the pull of his tumultuous waves and the roots that simultaneously bind me to the earthly warmth of another kind of man.

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Apr 13, 2022

Apr 13, 2022 at 8:58 AM UTC

Internal monologue

I see two paths, two lives for myself - with him I am cast into an ocean of untamed feeling, lost to reason, and floating off into an unseeable future. With the other, I am held fast, held close by his love and burrowed deep into the earth; an old tree that twists faithfully growing strong and aging gently across the planes of a lifetime. How am I to love - who am I to be, to choose, to sink into. I feel the pull of his tumultuous waves and the roots that simultaneously bind me to the earthly warmth of another kind of man.

19

I lay my hands over the rot concealed within my belly and imagine instead I am ripe with a husband's love, feeling for the beating warmth of a life beginning inside my desolate womb. I await constantly the trial of my womanly worth; this man may be my judge. ©Isobel G. 15.02.2022

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Apr 13, 2022

Apr 13, 2022 at 8:41 AM UTC

Desert womb

I lay my hands over the rot concealed within my belly and imagine instead I am ripe with a husband's love, feeling for the beating warmth of a life beginning inside my desolate womb. I await constantly the trial of my womanly worth; this man may be my judge. ©Isobel G. 15.02.2022

11

The way your acoustic fingers drum over my skin; I'm slick with your rhythm. My heart beats a steady chord in harmony with your sway, our hips like reeds moving swiftly with the wind to the penultimate crescendo.

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Jan 31, 2021

Jan 31, 2021 at 1:13 AM UTC

Strumming

The way your acoustic fingers drum over my skin; I'm slick with your rhythm. My heart beats a steady chord in harmony with your sway, our hips like reeds moving swiftly with the wind to the penultimate crescendo.

8

It's so easy to romanticize, slipping on that cloak of self-loathing; Reminiscing on those failed dalliance days. You make me think of what might be If I could have been someone else, making me lonely for a rewind back to before my trajectory slid. I'm just one of those tortured people who leaves their mind on like a light.

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Nov 12, 2020

Nov 12, 2020 at 9:38 AM UTC

Listless

It's so easy to romanticize, slipping on that cloak of self-loathing; Reminiscing on those failed dalliance days. You make me think of what might be If I could have been someone else, making me lonely for a rewind back to before my trajectory slid. I'm just one of those tortured people who leaves their mind on like a light.

12

How many people have I known; taking them into me, speaking that universal, ancient language of intimate bodies. All the beds I've slept in, all the hands that have felt me move as I dance the age old dance.

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Nov 12, 2020

Nov 12, 2020 at 9:25 AM UTC

Ritual

How many people have I known; taking them into me, speaking that universal, ancient language of intimate bodies. All the beds I've slept in, all the hands that have felt me move as I dance the age old dance.

7

There's no fire to be started with paper matches, but the real thing sets the whole house alight. It all goes up in smoke; burning up your books and shattering your windows, so that your safe space is no more.

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Apr 30, 2019

Apr 30, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC

The Real Thing

There's no fire to be started with paper matches, but the real thing sets the whole house alight. It all goes up in smoke; burning up your books and shattering your windows, so that your safe space is no more.

9

I have to make myself empty; starve myself away. I have to exist less, I can't stand my existence. I'm taking up too much space. I cut myself to fit, small enough for your shadow. Make myself scarce before you can give me the slip. So there's less of me to give and less of me to take. How small should I make myself so that I'm not too much.

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Apr 16, 2019

Apr 16, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC

Dispossessed

I have to make myself empty; starve myself away. I have to exist less, I can't stand my existence. I'm taking up too much space. I cut myself to fit, small enough for your shadow. Make myself scarce before you can give me the slip. So there's less of me to give and less of me to take. How small should I make myself so that I'm not too much.

14

I want to take apart my skin when the sun is too bright and the world is too full of people who will never know me. I want to open the rivers inside my wrists and empty them; to pour myself away the way I pour whisky into my empty stomach, and my hypothermic limbs into stranger's beds.

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Apr 9, 2019

Apr 9, 2019 at 10:01 PM UTC

Liquid State

I want to take apart my skin when the sun is too bright and the world is too full of people who will never know me. I want to open the rivers inside my wrists and empty them; to pour myself away the way I pour whisky into my empty stomach, and my hypothermic limbs into stranger's beds.

11