How dare you feed your shadow and bind your rulebook with the cells of my brain, the tissue of my heart and the calories of my existence.

How dare you tear down my home. How dare you throw away the cushions of my stomach, tear down the curtains of my hair, destroy the pillars of my legs. Until all that was left was the cold brick. an empty house. A hollow heart, a bedridden passion for life.

You ate my muted screams and my broken dreams. Slower, no slower, chew slower. Don’t eat too quick. Weigh that, no! Weigh it again, the scales could be wrong so round it up, log it, 200 left for dinner. Please just let me eat, please give me peace.

Dog-earing her rulebook and breaking its osteoporotic spine. Feeding my life, furnishing my home.

The burning sun is awake
The hawks are awake
The demons are awake
The butterflies are awake. They are awake.  

Darkness enshrines,
Rich, bright, darkness.
Confusion and dazed franticity.

Blinded and stumbling,
They breathe,
They are free.
I am suffocated.

Choking.
And no one,
Not even those who watched me swallow the air,
Hear me gasp.

And what would happen if you
Looked into my eyes...

And realised?

These glazed eyes,
A distorted tautologous window.

A facade of transparency.
The window is misted
It’s distorted with the touch of an October morning.

And I fear.

You will not see through this window,
This glass.
Until it has shattered,
And all that remains is a soul,
That has been freed.

If you’re ever sat alone in the darkest room of your mind remember that there’s a tealight on the windowsill.

Light that candle.

And that little flame of mine will glow so fiercely, emitting undeniable warmth and love,
that will dance around the room like a firefly.

I wonder what it’s going to take for you to believe me.

Another sleepless night?
Another cut?
A deep cut. So deep the room screams scarlet.
Or maybe some pills, perhaps a few too many.
Maybe I should die, then you’d definitely notice.
And you’d swear I was always so happy, the life of the party.

But I was broken.

This white plaster conceals the words never spoken.
The writing upon my arm.

Covering that white writing,
Hugging it,
Keeping it safe.
Letters to myself.

That white writing that burns red,
Turning white at the hands of time.

Those words that were shallow, Meaningless,
Eradicated totally.

But those deeper words...
Those early hours,
Empty rooms.

Eternally white writing