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87 · Nov 2024
The Cure is a Curse
Nemusa Nov 2024
Illness blooms like nightshade,
its roots deep in my imagination.
I map his crevices—
each scar, each shadow a continent—
and commit them to memory.
Creation demands sacrifice,
they said,
so I buried my soul in the garden,
fingers carving half-moons
into the skin of my palm.

Chemical courage
slipped into my veins,
a cocktail of desires and leaps of faith.
Adaptation meant suicidal thoughts—
not fought, but tamed,
like wild animals pacing
the edges of my brain.

The candles melted,
grieving their own light,
smiles curling away
from the heat of mourning.
Each dawn, a quiet betrayal:
submission instead of rebellion.

I want the rush of blood again,
the roar of adrenaline
speaking in colors only I understand,
a language universal in its madness.
But now, there is only silence.
Black coffee, white memories—
a **** of the past,
stripped bare of its poetry.
84 · Nov 2024
The Quiet Hum of Oblivion
Nemusa Nov 2024
The quiet underwater hum,
a lullaby of stars, a murmur—
universe breathing from its womb,
and we, small, ashen sparks, adrift,
a distant glimmer in the vast,
like sirens calling dreams awake.

She tasted ******'s slow dissolve,
a little calm beneath the tongue,
and hands that shook, still trembling words—
her fears laid bare in shaking lines,
as anxiety led her to cliff edges,
silent as the ocean’s pull.

She feels ancient, crumbling bone and sigh,
though he insists she’s still young,
but each high she chases, harder—
brown powder racing blood and heart,
the beat slipping, frantic, mad,
her gaze unraveling at the seams.

Past slips in, a nightmare child,
picking at scabs, laddered arms,
hair yanked as if by some twisted root.
And him—his weight, his need—she bends,
forgets as he pushes her close to oblivion,
as bruises bloom, a lover’s bloom.

With bite, with mark, she blooms and fades,
and finally sleeps, lips bleeding night.
Past cowers in the mirror’s face,
while demons swarm, clawing back.
The bitter pills she swallows whole,
their taste as old as ancient grief.

Beyond cracked glass, lace and shadow,
the old woman waits—her hand in Death’s.
Church bells toll the hour low,
as flames draw near and edges blur—
and in the dark, the moon hangs low,
her reawakening marked in ash and bone.
77 · Nov 2024
Moonlit Whispers
Nemusa Nov 2024
A pearl moon circles,
Koi fish ripple silent dreams,
Water whispers low,
Circling hopes, a dream to hold.

— The End —