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Kit Scott Feb 2021
the daughter of my mother
sleeps inside my chest.
murmurs in her sleep
"i could do it better, i could be loved for it"

                      my mother loves her daughter.

it's hard, letting her go
my home of many years
no matter how uncomfortable the bed was
how cold the rooms
i lived in her
was loved in her

sometimes i take her out
drag her out of my soul like old laundry
like nostalgia, like a party dress
i slip, quietly, into her skin
wear her face, her family.
she doesn't fit right.

the daughter of my mother
is coated in broken glass on the inside
but as her
i can do it better, i can be loved for it

                      my mother loves her daughter.
.
Kit Scott Jan 2021
I wonder, if I drifted off
Would he come for me
Would he brush his fingers through my hair
And take me in my sleep

Would he bring me into his arms
And cradle me close
Though no heartbeat could sound by my ear
Behind his pitch-dark robes

Would he carry me away
My prince on a pale horse
My own heartbeat fading, dwindling
Lost forever in pause

Some part of me wishes to greet him
Quickly, without delay
But my sweetheart knows his work
And I know I cannot stay

So I will place my feet on the ground
And spin with him once more, once again
Yet another parting flirtation before
I spin back into life’s fray

I cannot dance long with
This on-and-off lover of mine
Because when I run to him
He (always, always) leans in, whispers, gently

"This is not your time."
Haven't been having the best time lately! But I have enough spite to keep me going! But sometimes I just want to leave.

Trying to tag this makes me feel like a proper emo though ****.
Kit Scott Aug 2020
you are an unholy sort of beautiful
a rejection of divinity in every freckle and curve
in the dirt under your nails and the blood in your smile
your crooked nose and clever fingers screaming that you are godless

you dress yourself in an artless kind of humanity and revel in the shock it brings
hair and skin and dirt and all the warmth you can gather between two hands
you cup your heart in scarred palms like the very opposite of a benediction

you wear debauchery like a second skin
darling, you could **** god with a grin
this doesnt flow very well but i like it
Kit Scott May 2020
-
why do you write? I asked, when nothing you write is good

"Emotion," you said. "Words spilling too fast to think them through."

that isn't poetry, that's blood I told you. You laughed.

"Of course it's poetry. Blood too. Maybe not good poetry, but it isn't as if I write for others."

how can you not care. not reach after them. our being is outstretched hands and dreaming. how can you bear to write anything but perfection. how can you bear to show off anything less that the best.

You shrugged at me. "Poetry isn't perfection, isn't that the point?"

but we must be as the masters

"That's stupid," you told me, then stood and brushed imaginary dust off the imaginary trousers on your imaginary legs. "I don't need to be a master poet to write about being sad and teenaged, even if it'd be awfully nice to be one."

"Besides, we're, like, fifteen. We've got time, *******."

...that's true.
-
Kit Scott May 2020
I dream of taking my shirt off
A fantasy of skin and scars
Of baring my chest to the sun
Of muscle and fat and hair
And all the grossest parts of the human form
I want them to be mine
For this body to be mine
I fantasize of stripping naked
In the privacy of my own room
To look in the mirror and see
A familiar face, a familiar body
Just to see, just to look
Delight unfurls in my heart
Just to know, now, that I belong to myself
That my own bared flesh no longer causes me pain
That my own bareness is no longer a shame
I deal with dysphoria by forcing a disconnect between my mind and my body. I feel like a stranger to myself. This face isn't mine.
Kit Scott May 2020
I woke in the early hours today
And watched the dawn
The sky all smudged in red-yellow-blue
And strokes of green
And slate-coloured clouds backlit against the distant paint palette
And the black silhouette of the city
Far away I see a dot of golden in the pitch
So I share this moment alone together with a stranger
Both up in the stupid hours

This is how poems are supposed to go, yeah?
Yeah, something like that. Post it before we start thinking too hard about it.
Kit Scott Mar 2020
who
questions blur across my eyes i want to know the answers all the answers who am i who are you where are we and why this stained world like a thousand cathedral windows shattered all strewn glass and holiness you bless my brow like a benediction but where

where am i
twisting like an animal something rising writhing in my gut this fizzing popping burning something red hot veins how do i use this what do i do with it here in a void of you and me and i am so so tired of blaming myself if you wanted something soft then you should've kept me precious but you

                like throwing stones at windows for fun all cruel stupid children and you never grew up i know that now

fractures of me sharp im back again here we are and i learnt to use them do you see all my sharp bits am i a beast yet am i disgusting to you come on try it i want to watch you fail because i am now faster and sharper you are big but you are not infallible i have learnt i am not afraid anymore you made me this so c'mon

                                                          ­               come get me, *******
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