Yesterday,
your shampoo was still in my shower,
dream catcher hung above my bed,
shirt folded in my dresser,
letters and presents, tickets and paintings,
all of my jewellery stained from your touch.
Everywhere I looked was a reminder
of you.
I hated it.
And while I sat, wondering if I would ever
learn to breathe again,
you were falling back in love with toxic people,
writing poems about other girls.
Maybe you've forgotten me already.
I was so incredibly tired and sick of being upset.
And so today I threw your shampoo in the bin.
I took down the dream catcher.
I put all the things you'd ever given me,
all the things that related to you in some small way,
in a box
and had my parents hide it.
Now there are no physical remnants of you left in my life.
I said I would not forget this relationship,
not push you away and forget, like I had
with others before.
But,
even in my past,
I have never been so truly hurt
by someone I was sure was going to keep me safe.
If you have decided it is the end for you and her,
then I have decided it is the end for you and I.
Tomorrow is another day for me.
And you are not in it.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Four poster bed
unmade
Empty chair
Water, tissues, gauze at the bedside
Toys
piled in the corner
Hot
The smell of sweat
Rotted flesh.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Her golden hair flows
lazily down her back.
The gentle sweep
of her brush against canvas,
soft hands across naked skin.
A sliver of moonlight seeps
through the slit in the curtains and pools itself
at the ends of her hair. From her roots come
a million strands of citrine crystals,
illuminating my bedroom with oranges and reds and yellows and
I wonder if the sun
could compete
with her effortless radiance.
She gives me a
Look, over her paint-splattered
shoulder and I decide definitely:
No.
It could
Not.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC