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Pulse Oct 4
My mother was dead before I came into the world,

I know not what killed her, only that something did.

Standing in her place was something that tore through words and the mind’s fragile shields,

Brought me down to levels I was sure could not get any lower and then continued to do so.

But I only figured it out, truly figured it out, when she didn’t stop him, when she just watched.

You see, what hurt my mother the most, despite all she screamed and yelled,

Despite her talent for reducing me to a sobbing mess of myself,

A mess that couldn’t be pieced back together again,

He loved me more.

Even when I didn’t want him to, he loved me more.

My mother was not the most beautiful thing in the world, she was only the loudest.

And not even the loudest thing can hold your attention for long.

To him, I was beautiful for my silence.

And to her, I was a knife to the throat.
saw a prompt for 'mother's injury' and this is what happened
Pulse Aug 7
Covered in love.

Blue and purple, green, black and yellow.

I’m buried in your affections dear,

And they choke me,

clawing at my throat until it’s bloodied and bruised.

You paint a grisly work across my body love,

For what am I to you but a canvas for your twisting violately emotions?

Some days there are kisses,
and others you dip your paintbrush into colours,
that burn and ache across my skin.

And I am small in the face of you and your horrid passion,

I am insignificant and controllable.

And you are an artist of brutality,

You are a lover made up of cruelty.

There is nothing beautiful about your artwork darling,
Just as there is nothing warm in our love.

Where is our love?

Among these savage acts and violent tools,
among the broken, bruised skin?

No, there is no love here.

At least, none that I can find.

I am out of love for you,
And it has been so very long since you last loved me.

So I will try and wash out your paints,
And your coloured loved,
And build myself back up.

You are not my world.

I am my own person.

Do not paint me,
in your **** colours anymore.

I am no canvas of yours.
  Aug 6 Pulse
From one
Who says, “Don’t cry.
You don’t want them to know”

And two
Who tells you
It’s your fault anyway.

To three
Who pretends that
You were old enough to consent.

And four
Who asks, “Was it
Really ****? I think you came.”

To five
Who doesn’t like that you said no,
So he ties you down
And does it anyway.

And six
Who grabs you by the throat
And tells you, “Stop fighting,
I’ll make you feel good”.

To those who think it’s good - yes -
Some think they’re doing you a favor

And they’ll tell you that
You want it
And sometimes you almost,
Almost , believe it.

Thank goodness there are numbers
Higher than one, two, three,
And, yes, even six.

Thank goodness they are not
All the same.

And thank goodness
Thank goodness
We can put ourselves back together
Without them.
Pulse Jun 29
In the dark of winter and the cold of night,
a queen sits upon an old cold throne,
bitter and sorrowful.
This is not the queen of summertime,
of spring.
No this is the queen of the underworld,
the flower of the king.
This is a woman who wanted the world of love,
and didn’t think much further.
didn’t learn to love herself,
or be careful with her heart.
And the young, loveless queen sits by her husband's side, a pale and pretty thing.

In the light of spring and the warmth of day,
a king sits upon an old cold throne,
bitter and lonely.
This is the king of the dead and night.
The king of the underworld,
this is a man with no guiding light,
a lonely little thing.
This is a man who wished for love,
and thought he found it with a bright young goddess.
And never knew much love to begin with,
and so was unsure of how to give it.
And the old lonely king sits without his queen, a dark and **** thing.
Pulse Jun 9
there are hundreds of languages to say i love you in,
and you only ever say those three words in the fake ones.
guilt-ridden and poisonous and acid-tipped tongue,
dripping and corrosive and destructive.
I love you is synonymous for i hate you
and i love you means I'm sorry
and i love you means you'll never do it again
and i love you is a lie
Pulse Jun 2
The terrifying thing is;
Sometimes when people tell you they love you,
They mean it.
They mean those words with every fiber of their body,
And you don't know whether it hurts worse to love or to be loved.
But what you do know is that.
When someone tells you they love you,
Without any love in their voice,
With favours to ask,
And words that burn their way onto your skin like hellfire,
And questions and lies that cut into your heart like ice shards and knives.
You know that they keep you only for your adoration,
that you will remain nothing more than an insignificant rock that orbits around them like they are the sun and the stars,
that your love for them is the only love between you two.

And you know that,
When someone loves you,
You, poisonous and tainted and wrong and weak,
You should be thankful that someone would ever put up with all the dreary despair and self-loathing that clings to you like a parasite and never let's go,
But, when they speak of love and only ever seem to hurt you with that love, it hurts.
And chips away at what little is left of you.
And you are a lone rock at sea,
A storm raging around you and withering you down until you are nothing.
Because being loved hurts just as much as loving can.

And all you really want is for someone to hold you and show you that you aren’t what you think you are.
But you know you don’t deserve that.
Wretched creature that you are,
Otherwise, why would you only be able to be used and hurt by people who say they love you?
Occam’s Razor they say.
The simplest answer is often the correct one.
There is something unlovable and corrupting in you,
And it sinks, like poison, like death, into those around you.

And you are, and forever will be,

Pulse May 24
i wish my body wouldn't fail me;
limbs tensing and refusing to respond to my commands,
lungs suddenly unable to draw air,
heart pounding with such intensity it leaves my body shuddering,
or maybe the trembling is just because you're sitting too close and it makes me want to puke.

i feel as solid as air,
and as sturdy as a china doll that's already fallen to the ground a thousand times,
and come out of it as little more than dust and waning hope

the disconnect between my body and my mind widens every day that goes by until i don't know who i am anymore or who's body i inhabit.
there's no one home and you might as well have killed me the first night, because it would have been so much kinder.
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