Anger, it boiled under her skin like a furnace,
Blisters bloomed like flowers in crystal moonlight,
White pustules of burgeoning desire,
The desire, pulsing white hot behind her eyes,
Hate swirling in the depths of her soul,
Heart pounding as her dreams pulled thoughts of destruction.

So small, and innocent, and they had never done anything to her,
Pumping, day in, day out, taunting her with that sound,
Metronome, tick tock tick tock, her time was running out so...
Why bother?
Hate, flashed, fast furious and ugly in her lungs,
And she choked on it, words coming out jumbled,
A red flush bleeding across her cheeks in reparations,
Those voices in her heads, so cruel and wanting.

Guilt undulated like a smirking nemesis,
Laughing as she fell down down off into the deep,
Plummeting off the edge of the waterfall,
Clothes pulled tight against her bones, just like her skin, so tight,
Fragile,
Easy,
So easy
It would be so easy,
Hate roared in her veins once more, taking hostage the pounding of her heart.

Fear, easy to grasp, hard to get rid of, drenched her in cold sweat,
Drew pleading gasps from her torn lips,
Torn, like skin, pulled sharp and ragged, from her teeth,
Always talking, always biting she was, mellifluous words of torment,
They spilled like heavenly gospel from her bleeding lips,
Smearing ugly and smelly shame across her belly,
So easy to let it fill her, so simple to let it consume her.

But she fought.

For she would hate to let it win.

She is at war with many things,
Too many to relay,
But her arch nemesis is of course herself,
The inner being that hisses insults in her ear,
The raven that claws at her insides,
Making her stomach turn in anxiety,
And her head pound in fear.

Sometimes she think she is a vessel,
Not a vessel for the gods of a vessel taken by a demon,
Simply a vessel, trapping the truth inside,
A slick skin which looks so realistic, tied all around her like binding ropes, that people believe her to be real,
Even when Inner Her is screaming out in pain,
And Outer Her believes the skin to be too tight, and brings up a pin.

Inner Her is not kind nor sweet,
She is judgemental, selfish and filled to the brim with toxic self hate,
But she supposes she has trapped her honesty in a web of lies,
So it is only right to hate herself.

Doubt is a slimy liquid poured onto her skull and into her eyes,
She thinks it smells too nice to get rid of,
And perhaps that was a lie too,
And perhaps Inner Her was banding on her ribcage, just below where her heart rests,
Screaming in righteous resentment “I hate you” over and over,
Like a song's chorus she cannot help but hum to.

She goes to the beach,
The sand cool between her toes,
Wind howling in early morning protest,
She smiles when a jogger passes her and smiles,
They smile back,
Inner Her rocks back and forth in insanity,
A thought coursing like poison through her veins “Can they see me?”

Both of them have become invisible with time,
Their skin flayed thin until it doesn't exist,
Hair pulled away from many nights trying to steady herself,
Bones crumpled under the weight of her incoming mortality,
Eyes hollowed with restlessness.

For there is no sleep for the walking dead.

Inner Her laughs,
A big mad cackle that stretches over mountains and down into animal burrows,
She points a finger held out as a weapon,
Laughing with no humour,
Only burgeoning and treasured insanity.

She has done it,
Finally.
And now Inner Her rests on the flesh of her dead enemy,
...skin and bones blown with the wind,
joining the sands of time to an eternity of darkness.

Outer Her was fallen.

Addiction,
Oh how she longed for addiction,
that she could understand,
Like a gentle tap on the door,
A little ring in her head,
A buzzing in the back of her throat,
Reminding her it was time to sink lower,
Down into the pits of her own damnation.

Addiction,
She would prosper compared to this,
She would fly,
Wings out like telescopes cataloguing the night skies,
Pain was only a replacement,
A repression of her bottled sins,
A soul deep binding that kept her Outer Her from going nuclear.

Addiction,
If only she could let herself go back,
Take steps back down the staircase and away from heaven,
Climb down into the well and huddle in the bone deep chill of that water,
Iced veins, burning under her skin,
That peculiar smile on her face..

The distraction,
Like triple rainbows from a school bus seat,
All the children turn their heads in wonder,
Eyes wide in innocence and joy,
Sweeping away from their little lives to witness that majesty,
And her,
Lying,
Crying,
Dying,
Drowning,
In that bed of hers,
Sheets seeping into her skin and biting cramps at her limbs,
And her fingernails,
Sharp enough to hurt and pull her mind away from dark alleys and harsh truths.

It was not a world of infinity,
Not a world she could escape by regular means,
And it pained her everyday to be reminded,
It ached in the pit of that tomb of snakes, writhing around in her stomach,
Smelt of ash and soon-to-be-lit matchsticks,
Phosphate, red, burning, like the sun,
And her, with skin, as soft and white as the curtains going up in flames,
Eyes wide and begging for something else to look at,
A summer snowstorm out the window perhaps,
Anything but the digging thorns of truth that tightened around her throat like a noose.

Anything but those thoughts,
Of how sharp her fingernails are,
And how locked her door is,
And how small she is compared to the majesty of the world,
Glorious and frightening.

Anything but how easy it could be.

Ants are crawling up my arms,
Biting and squirming like a second skin,
Pulling my heart from my chest in frantic tones,
Eating at my organs like leeches and beasts.

They squabble with one another,
Fight over who gets the fingers and toes,
Bring chills down my spine regardless of the donned layers,
Itch at my scalp just waiting for me to pull my hair.

I glare at them,
But am pliant and suave,
Simply lying there,
Letting them take control.

Am I nothing but a planet?
A hill for them to rest upon,
And eat,
And survive,
At least I serve a purpose for these ants.

I long for them gone,
And know if I stand they would fall,
But do not,
For uncertainty and lead in my limbs weigh me down.

The ground stares harshly up at me,
Whispers of grass ruffled spitting insults to my coiling stomach,
I see the ants crawl away,
If only for a moment,

And I miss them.

She stares into the abyss.
Lungs battling with mighty gales,
Eyes open wide and stinging from the spitting rain,
On one foot, balanced, teetering ever so slightly over the edge,
She has looked,
Has gazed upon the ultimate evil and ultimate peace,
Believing to be safe on her side of the cliff top,
Not concerned when the inky black talons of eternity sink into her skin like knives,
She thinks she will fall one day,
One day when her foot does not grip as harshly to the side,
And she is scared too,
Terrified,
But knows she would also be relieved,
For she would have an answer, finally.

What is out there, over the edge?

Home

The taste of granite flushed her mouth,
Felt like brittle sand between her teeth,
And she grimaced harshly,
Blaming the crust on her teeth for her situation.
Her knuckles cracked as she pulled her hands into fighting fists,
Her heart beat sung cruelly in her ears as she stared,
Black eyes dancing in unanswered danger,
At the large looming presence in front of her.

She could die,
Truly die, splat, gone, disappeared,
Wind howling with her absence,
Never to be seen again.
And she didn't know how to feel about that,
Was undecided,
Twisted and curled and gnarled in darkened thoughts,
Couldn't quite wrap her fragile mind around reality.

She was walking,
Back and force, pacing with side stepped tracked expectancy,
Eyelashes swaying like whiskers in the wind,
Cold eyes opened and ready to see the end, the coast to her city.
Her feet clacked like a horse's hoof beneath her,
Her shoes, never cleaned, smelt quite similar to a horse too,
Musty, sweaty, *****, filled with unleashed stench,
But she did not plug her nose.

The smell was hers to disgust on,
She embraced it.

She tucked stray hairs behind her angled and alert ears,
Letting calloused and shredded hands do such a gentle action seemed wrong,
As if they only mimed the part they were meant to fit,
Even though they had been her hands for as long as her hands existed.
Her eyes raised slowly, in key with the slow moving sunrise,
She gazed in mesmerised and petrified wonder,
At the unveiling scene of terrified beauty before her,
It didn't seem real.

She dropped her arms in shock and amazement,
The two falling tactlessly beside her sides with the agility of a ragdoll,
She found herself walking on slightly bent legs,
Towards the glorious picture.
A child, no older than four,
Demon eyes the colour of the blood,
And silver hair the colour of the moon's reflection on the sea,
Lifted out a curious arm with gentle innocence.

The child was not normal,
Though neither was she with her black eyes and doomed expression,
They fitted together, their palms folding like two clashing pieces, and slotted seamlessly,
She had thought her hands would fall off if they ever touched another.

Why was this boy so special,
And why did she not hate him for it?

She lifted him into her arms with a maternal grace she had never understood,
Tugged him close until his small plump face rested on her clothed chest,
Could hear his gentle and fragile heartbeat thumping softly against her squished torso,
Banging harmlessly against her ribcage.
She felt tiny hands play with her straight locks of hair,
Running fingers through the tragic art of her style,
Sniffing the smell of unwashed hair,
Of unbathed pale skin exposed to the elements.

The little boy's nose did not wrinkle as expected,
He did not appear to think she smelt of horse like her shoes.

The little boy smelt of woodchips, of forests, cooked chicken, and clean air,
He was far too precious for her to be holding,
But she couldn't seem to let go,
Not once she had him.
He brought his butterfly soft lips to her ear,
Gently brushing hair away from the opening,
And whispered softly, as if he had no idea how glorious the words were,
Against her shoulder and into her heart.

“I'm home, right?”

He rolled the words over his tongue,
Tasting them like fine wine,
As if he could not believe them himself,
And she could only hold him tighter.