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Bad Wolf Sep 2018
I feel for you
halfheartedly,
over the phone.

Are you trying?

--

I'm in your t-shirt
pulling dreadfully at the creases in my sleep
burying myself so I cannot breathe
to seek some of last week's
comfort.  
Maybe I don't want to be here if you're not.

--

I have been so lonely, 'I miss you' is the mouth of the well.
Bad Wolf Sep 2018
Closet cold,
no closure in the dark,
I wait and wait
in silence,
for some kind of
curtain call.

The dog sighs at my feet,
asleep rolling eyes around,
does anyone
see me at all

And would it matter
Bad Wolf Jun 2018
A pair of shorts,
two cord strings entangled
and the pattern
my mother's hands shook
gently
to draw;
cities,
a landscape,
a cross.
"I have no eye for art,"
she'd say,
but my mother's hands
made something for him, a husband,
The Husband,
and he wore them for a while.
Perhaps childish,
the colours slightly faded,
maybe her devotion
embarrassed,
I don't know,
but he pushed them to the back
of the cupboard in a corner of their
bedroom.

My mother is unhappy,
she doesn't know it,
or why,
but maybe it has something to do with
those shorts on the shelf
collecting dust.
Bad Wolf Mar 2018
All we do
is say the same words
in a different order
in a different language.

I say,
I don't want to eat,
I say,
I hate myself

i say
i'm so tired
i say
i want to die.
Bad Wolf Mar 2018
Car rope whiplash,
the snap of my neck
to the right,
a crush of bones, a clatter
of clavicle,
all in a mash of brain fluid and grey matter.
I want to hate you when you tell me I'm beautiful
because I feel like
nothing.
I feel like flies buzzing
in a corpse.
Bad Wolf Feb 2018
the grey day
Beloved,
you and I at the cliffs,
holding hands over
a fervent sea.
You and I, autumnal rift,
pocketed by rocks,
swapping a storm
between our teeth.
Bad Wolf Feb 2018
I have nowhere to go,
afraid of my own home
and the creaks,
the way my mother looks at me,
a half starved love,
and my father with his scorn.

Do any of us sleep
besides him?
Keep our eyes open in the dark
for forming faces
over our heads.
He'll slip
like deadweight
into his reflection,
look at us like fleas and roaches,
to scurry at the sound
of footsteps.
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