My lips
twist like
the door
that never
opens
the
lock
clicked shut
that shudders
as the
screams
bang
against it

a
drum's
skin

I let
my
eyes
like windows
darken
as they
fall
over you
that
cursed sweep
of
gaze that
leaves you
twisted
like
my lips

you are
devil born
are
witch blood
are
red hot
blood
pumping
rusted
heat against my
jealous
flesh
you light up
like
rockets
burning
against the
ever silent
sky
you are
incandescent
and
my
eyes
darken with

envy.

He is narcissist of highest character
is sunshine that is so smug
with its
wide smile
and rays that
poison

yet sunshine is
still your happiness

he is holder of many hearts
he likes to clutch them like
soft baby skin
to his soft chest
and feel the
beating and
warm gush
of blood
against
him

it feeds him
some say
like your eyes
never could
like the spark
that
pumped
like the
breath never could

that
beating
marvel
never could

like you
never could

he tells you that he has always loved the sun
you believe it is because he
sees himself when he
stares at it
in the reflection of the
car door

it slams behind him
as he steps over the
threshold

he does not whisper
of how your lips
were the key to his

he does not let his tongue
trail across your aching chest
as he murmurs
of how

you are the sun
baby
you shine so bright
baby

your skin is so soft
baby

sometimes you believe he has forgotten
that he was once you
was once the boy who lied
beneath the hungry tiger
and let its jaws
wrap upon his neck

and squeeze

sometimes
gentle narcissist
is he,

he likes to hold you to his chest
to feel your heart
and whispers about how
beautiful
you are
and how he

doesn't care

a pang shoots through your chest
and you feel tears leaking from you
you feel as if he has betrayed you

and then he

puts down your heart
looks you in the eye
and says

I don't love you for your beauty
baby
I love you for the fire
that spurs my wind
and
darkness that
sets my
skin aflame

He is
mystery
curled in
dark eyes
and a
smile that
makes her
want to
sing.

She is
suspicious
of his
glances
that he sends
like
birthday cards

she believes
them
obligatory
and
non representative
of his
true feelings

she is
cursing him
like
winter storms
that
curl around her
wrists and
tie her
to the
leaking ceiling

he always
says
hello

she wonders
what it means

she knows
he
would never
look at
her

she is
not much

but she
cannot stop
her
heart from
squealing
like some
babies
favourite
bunny
as he
shines
so radiant
and

sincere

in her
direction

she thinks
she might
hate him
for being
so
god
****
lovely

he is
too similar
to the
warm
wind that
crashes over her
like
waves
the warm
water
that gives her
gold dust tingles
the gentle
hand that
rests
on her
cheek and
slowly
drifts like
icebergs
down
with small
fingers
to the
crest of her
smile

she
thinks
his
sparkling
eyes
are
her
worst
enemy

She leans back,
head rested
head bumping up
and down
like
waterfalls that
sometimes
loose their
magical
glow and
get
confused.

Her sunglasses rest
restrain her glowing face
like the
headlights that
reflect from her
eyes
hidden from sight
she feels the
creases of the
plastic in
her cheeks
curling
impressions like
footprints on
the sand
into her
jawline

like kisses
she thinks
that hang
too long
on the
cusp of her
morning breath.

She had
searched
all morning
for the make up
that fit her
botched
skin tone
her arms had
been a
canvas of
experimental
design
like that
painting
she sometimes
pretends to
stare at

she is artist
she murmurs
as she
looks at
that vase
which
seems so

flat.

She
wears the
make up
not because
she wants to
be
or
feel
beautiful,
she does not want
the sunbeams
to shine
from under
her fingernails
or her
lips
to light up
like
christmas
baubels,
she coats
it as
penance
for a past
life
for the craggled
hag that
has no voice
in her
sternum
its oldened
fingers
tap on
her
waistline
like
measuring
utensils.

She wears
the make up
to
cover up
her
morning breath

the morning
sunlight
had
cast
a
brutal gleam
upon her
showing
all her
dark spots

she wears
make up
as
penance
for the
devilish thoughts
that bounce
like
raindrops
off her
steel roof

of the whispered
mercies
of the
voiceless
hag that
hangs in
her
noosed
throat

she wears
penance
like its
a beautiful
blush

like drifted
snow has
coated her
skin and
she is
now
destroyed

she covers
up the
crinkled
muesli
bar
hag that
sings
old
folk tales
in her
lips

the rogue
red
that
tastes like

his blood.

I held my
tongue
so long
that it has
withered
like a
dying vine
within my
throat
and I can
only rasp
of things
I wished
to say.

I held
my tongue
so long
that my
calloused hands
no longer
wish
to hold my
weight

the roof
has never
seemed
so high up.

I am the truth hiding behind your lies,
the joke that pounds like dynamite in your skull,
the whispered presence that calls for salvation,
the darkened eyes of the boy next door who looks

so haunted.

I am the truth,
hiding within your smile,
within the
flecks of gold
and sparkles
in your eyes,
the smile that
never ceases
and
never stops,
the smile that
makes me
wonder what is

real enough.

I am the vaulted raindrop that hangs in your hair,
I cling to you, so tightly, my arms around your chest,
my cheekbone rests gentle on your
morning wrinkles
the eyes that do not wish
to open
the sleep that
makes you
frown
a worker's
grimace,
the drop that
adds to
your wrinkles
to your
sopping
hair that
never seems
to dry,
I stare from above your mountain,
taking vantage of your morning route,
listening to the
whispers
which you
brush to the side

they're not real.

The dark eyes
of the one
you love the most
and
always forgive
no matter
the consequence
hang
silent
deadly
titled up
to the drowning sky
teeth pulled back
jaw out and
empty
for the howls
to fill

she wears black
to
camouflage
her

her bright
skin,
its canvas
is so
pale that
sometimes
she thinks
she can
carve
into her
own flesh

you swallow
in disgust
bees burrowing
down into
the rocky
falls of her
bottomless
stomach
the buzzing
sounding
so loud
from your
vantage point
of looking down
into the
fathomless
pits
of her
soul

you ache as
she
feasts
on your
raw and
tender
juices

blood is the
sweetest
wine
she whispers
voice thick
with lust
as your
veins
pound
against
your skin
she looks
like she
could
swallow
you whole

and you
feel
like you
could
let her

she licks
her lips
for she
so loves
the flavour
of
torment

she is monster
is devil blood
is canines
tearing
against the
scarred fabric
of your
skin
is forgiveable
is only animal
is mindless
is drenched from
head to toe
in the rain
that comes
pouring down
from the heavens

she is
still not
clean
she is
still
******
pretending
the lipstick
she wears
is

animal
friendly.

I have nothing beautiful left to say,
only the awkward sound of the
crinkled up chip packet
the crumbs dust my fingers
like police ink on my thumbs
and I lick them clean
blood painting my tongue red and
heartwarming.

I am empty within my eyes,
only left with soulless husks of
before
before the wind howled my bedroom shut
before the screaming storm hid my screams
before the rain that trickled in through the cracks in the ceiling
hid my tears from sight
before the footsteps that banged like metal plates
hid the fist banged against the inside of my cavernous mouth.

I am full,
expanded like a hot air balloon
filled to the brim until my
throat is slicked in slimy truths
and my stomach pushes at my
ribs
my heart hangs heavy like Christmas baubles
within the cavity of my chest
which is slowly being
filled by the
butterflies brewing
within my tonsils.

Words creep up
my arms like
many knives
aiming for the
blue railway tracks
of my
veins
they always
pump too loud
in my ears
I can't focus
on the
vitriol
thoughts in
my head
which demand
so much
that I
cannot give

I scream for
mercy that
I
do not
deserve

for the shadowed
woman
on the wall
to lay down
her gun
and hold me
so our
hearts sync
and the
world doesn't
hurt so
badly
anymore

I pray for
the
demons in
my skull
and chest
to
quit
their
racket
and let me
sleep

perhaps

eternal
sleep would
be
the
answer
but I am
competitive
and I would
hate
to let
them win

I ice my
feet
so when
I am
running
on the
thin ice
that holds me
like
chicken wire
fences and
tight skirt netting
so I can
slide through
the candlelight
and
emerge
a glorious
beast in the
darkness of
the nightmares

I look to
the
window
on my
left

hands
banging
incessantly
on the pane
I feel the pane
of bruised
fingers
and gums
as I
grit my
teeth and cage
the
screams that
long to
escape
I hold a
prisoner
in my
chest
that dances
like the
stomping of those
elephants
the beating
of my
breathing
living
consuming
heart
it pulls me
under

I let
it take me
down

until the
city lights are
reflected
in the
darkened
swampland

that is the

body of my

body of my

lake and
I swim
deep past
the
other
corpses
to the
sunken ships
and
skeletons with
hollowed eyes

I can
only stare
as my
life flashes
in sparks
of engine
ignites

of stars
flickering
twinkling
in and
out of
existence like
the sparkle
on the teardrop
from my
lover's
starburst
eyes

She holds her hand
to her heart
ears thrumming
like beating drums
from the thumping
that courses like
drugs
under her
golden
skin

She lets air
flood her
lungs full
her eyes
open wide as
she
lets the
tide of
darkness
filter down
into her
vision

she is
monster girl
is
child of
night
is star flecked
freckles and
evening soda
luke warm and
bubbles that
drip
sticky
like blood
down her
cheeks

the tears
taste like
ruined salt
unfiltered and
*****
like her
coarse tongue

she wails
to the
evening moon
which
shines with such
mellifluous
glee
cruelled
amusement
tenderised by the
beating down
upon her
soggy and
dribbling
heart

red paints
the
nails like
polish
she
puffs hot
and
heavy breaths
against the
metallic gleam
her teeth
shine like
canines
from the
howling terrors
of the
engulfing
forest

she howls
to the moon
which shines
with such
jealousy
for she
is more
mysterious.

She tells me it is
only poetry.

It is only words
writ from her fingers
only similes and
metaphors for
the empathy she possesses
it is not her
she says
she does not
think or feel
in this noticeable way
she is not a wall
for others to break
she is not a
canvas for her own
fingers to draw upon
she is not the sun that is
blinding her
she does not look away from
herself.

She does not stare
too long
into the reflective
mirrors that do not
catalogue her
soul.

She does not stare
she tells me
she does not write
she tells me
it writes her
it consumes her
it flows from the sunlight
rays that
hit through the
blocked up
shards of her
open window

she does not
sit on the sill
and wonder

she only writes it
it is not her own
hand that curls the letters
it is not her own poetry
she tells me
it is only words
it does not
feel the
way she
does.

She tells me
she has not written
herself
onto a page
has no blood
or tears
imprinted
upon those
leafs of
paper.

I know
if I
were to pull
up her
sleeve
I would
find
scars.

She tells me
it is only
a poem.

Run boy

let the wind
rush wish
to catch up
with your
motorised limbs

let the
sun set
falling want to
coo as
quick as
you can
race your
weary
smile

let the sky
and the
nighted blanket
have envy
of your
magnanimous
retreat

remember
the starry
eyes of
that boy
you
whispered
goodbyes
to
on his neck
like kisses
like
gentle breaths
like promises
the whiskered
kitten in
your heart
which purred
as he
held
your hand
so tight
you
could barely
stop the
wilted
smile
and
flooded
heartbeats from
drowning you
whole

he held
your hand
so
tight
you thought
he
wanted
to  
run too.

Nail
half crescent
imprints
of fossilised
hands
they hold you
you trace the scars
they hold you
and you
wish they
would keep
on holding on
as you
run.

Run boy
run into the sun
let the
memories
of open fields and
flower chains
and dotted kisses
trace your
heart with
strength
let yourself
run
until the
city walls are
snowflakes
against the
mountain
until your home
is only
a house
in your dreams
until he

until he is
only a shadow
on the
horizon
and you can
keep on
running
with his
words
on the backs
of your feet.

'love you.'

Run boy
so one day
you can
run on back
and

take him
with you.

Wetted cheeks chafe her skin,
tears pull agony breathless from her chest
the salty taste of the
ocean in her heart
reddened bruised blushes
upon her arched bones
the tang that
tastes so
delectable

but at what cost

the trade of her heart,
as it pounds
like many drums
in her
open cavities
the curled
elf ears
that quiver with her
unused shaky
smiles
the quiet
tremble
of her lips
and eyes that shine
with that wetness
as she

as she

she does not cry,
she is warrior
she is princess
she is
steel bars
bent and curled
malliable
around her
crescent arms
that hold her together
she is
whole
holy
she is
moonlight upon
the
antidote of
her sickness
the shedding of
skin
the snake's bark
and the
brown mercury
of that
sweet
and
tangy

tear

that
she is torn
she tears
it
breaks
under her
calloused
fingers
nails pry
at the
secrets
written on the
undersides
of her limbs

it is not skin
it is not pain
it is not hers

it is not tears
that she
wrenches
from her
breathless
chest

she is

not

teary.

The words
that she
left too
long out
of the
chains
tasted like
stale
bread
so she
stopped
tasting
them
and they
came out
gluttonous
beggars
always
biding
for her
tongue.

The words sit heavy on her tongue,
she has held them in too long,
it is too late to speak,
if she does it will come out rotten,
the fruit will be pasted,
she cannot speak like this,
it is not her right any longer,
she does not care if they want her to,
it is not okay to say it is not okay,
she does not believe in hope,
it pools in her throat like soured milk,
she feels the symptoms of a cold,
the reddened eyes,
the congested smile,
the curled in bed,
the stomach ache,
the heart that beats too much,
the running legs that do not run,
the eyes that can't seem to close,
the fingers that,
tap,
skip,
hop,
dance,
always moving,
on the move,
she needs to move,
she has to run,
it has been too long.

She thinks that no one could believe her,
for it is not true,
not really,
it can't be,
it is only her feeling this way,
she must be wrong,

it is the only answer.

She cannot seem to say anything beautiful,
all she can do is,
close her eyes,
shut her mouth tight,
curl her arms like
reaching embraces
hotly pooled down her throat
a blush upon her
mottled eyes
and she is
sparkling
heavenly
curled into a
dance that
she cannot control
limbs
jabbing out like
sparking
fireworks
sparkling like
glittered
eyelashes upon
evening lakes
sunset bleeding against
her
bleeding reflection
she is

she is

silent.

The words don't come out right.

They come out stuttered and garbled,
she does not think they would listen anyway,
she cannot seem to understand,
she cannot accept,

the moon is not
forgiving of her
plight
she stares
beseeching
to its
empty
gaze and
it does not
reply
to the
whispered
words
prayers
pleadings that
choke her
stick upon her throat
and
she
cannot
breathe

her lungs fail her once more
it must be her fault.

she never thought she would have to
it had never been her
she still does not believe it
it is not true

Should
never have to
face the
thickened
sticky
white and
creamy
cheesy
cliched
wrath and
terror
of her
mother's smile.

Should
never have to
flinch
inside
behind walls
made of
bricks
behind
barricades
of
stone
wrapped
in
bubble-wrap
at her
mother's
glance.

Eyes
should
never
hold
so
much
power
within
the
flash
of
discontent.

She should not
live
on a boat
always
biding time
waiting for
storms to pass
for
waves to
curl
and crack down
upon her
head
down into
the sand
that
holds her
down into
the dark
that
kisses her
goodnight
down into
the brutal
flick
the tap on the
glass
clench
of
the fingers
twitch of
the jaw

should never
have to
wait
for the
mother's roar
to
echo
through the
chamber
of her heart
until
silence
envelopes
her soul
and she
can sleep
without

fear.

Should
never
fear
her
mother's
evening breath
the
gentle and
stilling
exhale
a sigh
a brittle
and
glassed sound
that shatters
against her
tightly
pursed
lips
locked
mouth.

Should never
tell the heart
to
quiet down
and let
her run
like a
good
child
ignoring
the warning
bells
which
everyone else
seems to ignore
the words
that leave
her
stubborn
lips
in the
joke she
tells
the story
she
preaches
the hesitated
eye
widening
limerick

the expected
story
to tell
her
friends

her
mother's
wrath
tastes like
fire in
her belly
sulphur in
her throat
and
metallic
lingerings
of
biting
her tongue
to
suppress
the
screams

'what can you expect'

'my mother gets like that'

'she attacked me'

'but its okay'

'I was stubborn'

She closed her eyes,
the sunlight burned
at her closed lids,
it frayed her lashes
like many burning
lashes across
her back.

She closed her eyes,
and the world kept burning
the voices
never stopped
burning
she was born to burn

don't you see

she was born to burn
fireflies and
whiskey
breathless burn
fire storm
ablaze night sky
stars
crashing
she could
still see it
behind
closed eyes

those closed doors
never kept them out
the burning
voices
her skin
it was
a voice
it begged her
it pounded against her
to burn it
burn something

burn herself

burn the door
burn the curtains
burn the bed

lean against
pull around
lie down and

sleep in the burning bed

ignore the
voices
behind the door
let them
scream
you
let it
burn

she

let them
burn.

Stigmatise me baby,
pull your words tight across my skin
until my heart aches
mouth burns
and ribs cave from the pressure.

Pull me under darling,
sweet fortress of my soul
burn it to the ground
take down my walls

wasn't like I needed them.

Turn it into a joke
holder of my heart,
make me chuckle
at my own breaking down
of the dam breaking
of the water flooding my lungs
of the dreams that
never stop

never stop baby.

Hold your tongue gorgeous,
while I fall
while I jump
while you question if I
was pushed
by you
keep your voice soft
whisper it to me
let it sink into my skin
let me scratch it off my skin

scratch you off.

Blame me sugar,
let the blame flood over in waves
the crashing
like my crashing
the car crashing
the city falling
the crashing of those waves on my cheek
like the almost slap
it doesn't hurt baby
hit me as hard as you can
do it baby
I dare you.

Its not like
I care
anymore
baby.

I wear my hat,
it sits upon my head,
covers my hair,
shields me from the sun,
makes wind breakers for my skin.

I wear my hat,
it is my choice to wear it,
I like the colour,
I have worn hats in the past,
they say sun safety is important.

I wear my hat,
for no complicated reason,
and no one assumes,
that someone,
has forced me to wear this hat.

I do not wear it for the hat goddess,
I do not wear it to protect me,
I do not wear it because it is expected,
sometimes I do not even wear it because it looks good,
I like the colour.

It is my hat,
and my choice to wear it.

Where will it end
when my hands bleed
my knuckles cry
my teeth grit from their
sandstone edge
when the world halts
when the moon
does not rise
when I stare
into the burning mercy
of the sun until
I cannot see the
horror of myself
when the books have
no more letters
and pages to fill
when I am content

in my dreams perhaps

when I am content
and do not think
about the
burgeoning
suffocating
all taking
all giving
all consuming
blood on my hands
blood in my eyes
blood as hair
red as rubies
burning that
burns me from
the inside
like I was

born the burn.

When will it end
this quest
this adventure
of the soul
sword out to
protect my most
precious mistakes
little gems
of dangerous
and sacrificial
memories
when she has
hurt me
beyond repair
bones lying limb
and curved
like loose
spaghetti strings
blood is
back in business
is art
and is movie
and blood
my ******
conscience
always seems

to forgive her.

When will it end

when I have left

when she has left

when
my
b
o
d
y
has
left
me.

Reality burns
worse than matches
lit alight
embers in the night
bon fires
born for the burn
that rubs friction
down
my skin
and I
try to escape
the burning chain.

Pain
in the chest
a symptom
they say
I choose heartbreak
its
a
lie
but it sounds
like
a movie
and
its a movie.

Real lives don't taste like drama.

Real lives don't have a taste.

Bitterness
like coffee
I've never
drunk it
so this
isn't real.

The main stream
is a
river of
confusing fish
and I
don't
eat fish.

That's a lie.

This is
my book
to write
so I
choose
to write
nonsense.

Its a movie.
Not a book.
And there's
no ending yet.

I've considered ending.

Its a movie
its fine
just a movie
its fine
bitter movie
just fine
that's okay
just a movie.

My movie
is one
people choose
to ignore
until the
credits roll
and they
can act
like they
liked it.

I am in love,
I say
as if
I know what that means.

Shame spits
on
my cheek
and I
let it.

I let
the door
open
for the monsters
and
now I
am sad that
they came.

Its
a crap
party.

Do not look back he said,
into the starbursts of your lover's eyes
into the dark pits of what you left behind
into the burning sun that traces your tiny figure
into the drowning need that will wrap you home
into the drowning need that will suffocate you home
into the drowning need that will take you home.

Do not go home he said,
where the windows whine
the doors creak in warning
the footsteps echo like gunshots
the gunshots echo like footsteps
her words echo like gunshots
the gunshots do not echo.

Do not hold me he said,
like he was ghostly
pale as the moon
face pulled taught like a rubber band
eyes dark with warning.

Do not hold me he said,
for he feared the arms would choke him
the arms would pull at his hair until
he was
falling
into the arms
and he cannot handle the warmth
the buzz of conflict
the fight in their veins
knuckled up fighting fists.

Do not let her he said,
as if he could say that
as if she had not hurt him too
as if he was real.

Do not look back he said,
as if I had left at all
as if someone was telling me to leave

as if he knew.

I mourn the moon,
always high in the sky
hung like lights
forgotten so soon
stared from afar
red dripped acrylic traced in its outline
taught in schools
quoted in poems and literature
metaphorically stunted
admired and painted
but never understood.

I mourn the moon,
for those who see
do not gaze with no judgement
do always ask for more
do never look close enough
do not befriend the moon
only stare as if
it were
not truly
there.

I mourn the moon,
the crescent moon
that all see broken
as part of a whole
splintered off
separate and incomplete
never stopping
never pausing
to question
if the moon
in shadow
simply likes the
dark.

I mourn the moon,
the beauty
that even I
do not befriend
the mooning orb
that never comes close enough
hanging just off
titled away
axis parched and pursed
afraid to come close
be scorned for
the light.

treading water.

Limbs stretched out
hopes of sunshine.

Mouth turned to the sun
open wide
flooding
air in lungs

swim for hours.

time does not bother me
as it
pounds
against my skull.

lie back and float into dreams
dry and safe.

I made it
another badge
to add
to my
collection.

the water churns
in a storm

paddle
arms swinging
legs pounding
at the brutal sea.

beg for land
beg for rest.

sea keeps churning
the sea knows no
patience or
mercy.

I am afraid
to close my eyes
to swim
to fall.

to sink into the ocean
and drown in my sleep.

half of me wants to die
the larger half is begging
for land.

people throw their floats

They hit hard
some don't catch
some float away.

the ones that I hold
ease my weight
lift me to the sea.

Sleeping feels safer
with floats
and pillows
no pounding heart to keep me.

it feels like there is someone there.

Swimming alone
on the grand ocean
outside my vision.

I have swum for so long
I never investigate the human sobs
guilt churns in my stomach.

I do not want to see them drown.

I am scared
they will
pull me
down.

Guilt bites
at
my wrist.

I keep treading water
my own small pocket of darkness.

Waiting for the sun to set.

Perhaps it is fated,
has it not always seemed so,
that I would be here
you be there
and the trees continue on their terrible voyuerism.

Perhaps it was always meant to be,
the smothered doubt we carry,
the sights we set to see,
but never seem to absorb,
like oil cruising on water.

Perhaps I have it wrong,
this song of mine which plays like a record,
and the record is not broken,
but I play it anyway,
over and over until the taste hangs heavy on my tongue.

Words grow stale like bread,
it doesn't take long.

Perhaps I have been walking in a way that is not walking,
skipping past the important parts,
jumping over the things that matter,
standing still in the dark puddles of my youth,
staring at you from afar.

Perhaps I truly am the villain of this movie,
deluded to think I have a semblance of good,
only to be consumed by the knowledge,
lies,
that I am the toxic entity that has ruined this life of mine.

Darling,
a whispered
promise
that I hold
in my heart
burning bright
and blue
dim and
recognisable
the waking moon
smothered
by the bright
and choking
dawn.

Darling,
sheds my ears
of their layers
layers
onions
******>many
layers
sediments drifting
downstairs
the riverbank
churning of the sea
scream of my
fair ocean.

Darling,
ocean,
my fair
ocean.

Darling,
send goose-bumps
up my
arms
and
wrap bandages
around
the heavy rock
that sits
painful
and cracked
in my chest.

Darling,
remembered
through
telephone calls
hidden messages
coded pictures
his breath on her face
her smile on his ear
the electricity in their veins
the girl who sits
yellow coated
donned in raindrops
looking to the
artful a n d
looming
bell tower.

Darling,
a mournful song
is it
is he
is moving on
she could remember
when it
was not an eclipse
moon shedding
grey dust
against her cheekbones
hands drifting down
down
downstairs
d
o
w
n
to the bottom of her stomach
sending sparks
fireworks
whiskey breathless
mutters
of
Darling.

I am treading water.

Limbs stretched out to catch hopes of sunshine.

Mouth turned to the sun, open wide, flooding air into my lungs.

Some days I could swim for hours.

The time does not bother me as it pounds against my skull.

At night I can simply lie back and float into dreams, dry and safe.

I made it... I would think, made it through that day, another badge to add to my collection.

Some days the water churns in a storm around me.

I paddle, arms swinging, legs pounding at the brutal sea.

I beg for land to hoist upon, I beg for rest for my weary mind.

And the sea keeps churning, because the sea knows no patience or mercy.

At night I am afraid to close my eyes.

I do not want to sink into the ocean and drown in my sleep.

Even if half of me wants to die, the larger half is begging for land.

Sometimes people throw their floats against me.

They hit me hard, I almost don't catch them, and some float away.

But the ones that I can hold onto make swimming so much easier.

Sleeping feels safer with a pillow under my head, and no pounding heart to keep me awake.

Sometimes it feels like there is someone there with me.

Swimming alone on the grand ocean, just outside my vision.

I have swum for so long with no company I never investigate the human sobs that sound from beyond the reef.

I do not want to see them drown.

I am scared they will pull me down with them.

So I just keep treading water in my own small pocket of darkness.

Waiting for the sun to set.

I did not hear her scream,
from the room within my chest,
begging for freedom,
pleadings for mercy and tight sobs for love.

She did not colour me pale,
did not sap the colour from my cheeks,
paint me of sickly pallor,
skull head hung low as she yelled over and over for forgiveness.

I did not hate the girl trapped within me,
did not brush her cheek mockingly with my fingers,
crafting obscene and dying features upon her face,
she did not cry when I cut her.

I have not contained the beast,
there is no dark hole inside my heart,
I am not toxic,
she is not clawing at my insides until even blood is unsatisfactory.

I am not in denial.

Cobwebs paint her house homely,
the little bungalo by the beach,
walls thin enough to let the rushing sounds of the tide fill her room,
a permanent ocean backdrop,
sand smoothing her floor like welcome mats,
shells dressed upon her mantle like trophies,
all the be released back into the sea,
studied for their beauty, brought to the reflective window light,
before thrown back into the ocean,
consumed by the salty fire,
dug back deep into the sand for another child to find,
and call their own,
before bestowing freedom upon the once living mantle piece.

Sunlight trickles like an early morning wake up call,
and she stokes the fire pit,
spitting embers like insults,
brewing smoke to fill her home once more,
as fire burns her heart black and dreams paint her eyes a ghostly purple.
She is witch blood,
she thinks as she dances on the beach,
smiling in a way that had to be learnt,
singing nonsense words that she is not ashamed to sell,
feet soaked by the water that threatens her tiny shack,
sand dipped between her toes,
washing off so quickly like her forgotten worries.

Just her,
the house,
and the beach.

Dark horse of bad intentions,
I will ride you into the sun,
Let it burn you until night and day are one,
And keep riding on past on your shunned ghost.

Dark horse of my heart,
I love that dark look in your eyes,
That tastes like salt and vinegar,
And smells like ocean sand.

Dark horse of many I meet,
You are a copy,
Of my soul,
As dark as the thoughts I suppress,
And as heavy as the heart I carry.

Dark horse that I would long to throw into a lake,
I do hope you cannot swim,
They do say that sunken ships are all found eventually,
Which I count on,
For when I sink into despair and meet you once more.

Dark horse that I ride into the moon,
It is sunnier here,
Where you can see the sunlight and not burn,
Where the reflective dirt tastes like moondust,
And your heart is no longer mine to devour.

Paint me reckless,
with dotted eyes of unencumbered possibility,
rouged blushes of flushed athletic extremes,
paled hair that flows like waterfalls and broken valleys.

Dream me loving,
so that my gentle smile shines as bright as the waking sun,
my womanly embrace is as comforting as the silent moon,
eyes flash with consuming devotion, wide open and hoping for reciprocated picnics.

Curl me 'round the shadow of your doubt,
and I will be a voice of infinite confidence,
booming with the power of the earth as it spins on before and after,
the titled nonsense of nature, bringing you up to the skies before dropping you back into the hands of men.

Stamp me goodness,
with a golden halo of invisibility,
heroes shine of selfless deceptive gratitude,
blue quake of the ocean's roar, to sweep you away from dreams of darkness...

into the burgeoning belly of the hydra,
paint it homely,
and within its stomach will become yours.

Weigh me
down
until my feet
are tied to concrete
and the sun
doesn't burn my hair
like forest fires
any longer.

I am
free flying
a dangerous sport
for those
unaccustomed
to safety
it tastes
like bitter promises
of dark chocolate
and tinted
soap suds.

Merrily
****** me quickly
before I see the stars
too long
and can no
longer love
the dark
that has been a
gentle lover
for longer
than is normal.

It hurts
to breathe
yet I still breathe
am I
a *******?

Every night
sleeping feels
like walking
to the edge
of the plank
and jumping off
Am I
brave?

I paint
with rouge
on my
flattened
torso
am I
an artist?

She is past tense,
I do not know her anymore,
She is not me anymore,
I am cold to her,
I insult woman of past tense,
I pull at her hair and scream in her ears.

I am not her,
I plead,
I am not her,
She does sound like me,
She smells as I smell,
of autumn leaves,
baby steps, and
despair infringing on a perfect photo,
She is not me.

I remember her like I was her,
I will swear the monster she is, she has tricked me,
I slap her across the cheek,
Quiet you,
She is not allowed to speak any longer,
She is no longer me,
She cannot dictate my decisions.

I speak of her in past tense,
As if I am not hurting myself,
As if I am no longer her,
As if we do not suffer the same fates and memories.

She whispers for forgiveness,
I look down with cold eyes,
My heart clenches for her,
It aches in my chest like a bruised bone,
Spitting acid rain against her burned and brittle cheeks,
I would not treat a real person this way.

She claws at me for an embrace,
Love yourself the kinder person in my head preaches,
Holding my hand, as if I had not hurt myself enough,
As if my hands were not covered in my own blood,
She is curled in the corner of the room,
Sobbing for my forgiveness,
Pleading to know why I defile her so.

I turn away,
She is not me,
It is okay to hate her,
Even when that means I hate myself.

Dreams,
The wisps that flows like tears through his fingers,
Consuming and devouring gentle ideas,
Bouncing like rubber against his skull,
Twirling in friendly banter around his curled and protective arms,
Nibbling against his inner heart until it beats in tune,
Invisible yet so corporeal to the graced and fragrant mind.

Dreams,
Follow them into the sunset he said,
Chase them down until they are upturned dog bellies for you to scratch,
Whisper them into your lover's hair he praised,
Scream them from the outside of your skin until you are tattooed in high hopes,
Race in the meadow of your possibilities, grazing hands through gentle grass stains,
Skip along the crux of your horizons he taunted,
See your dreams and follow them through.

Dreams,
Like cold butter, so easy to cut, so hard to spread,
Bright and dull and pulsing with newborn growth,
Born from abstract praise and ideation,
Birthed for the exact purpose of leading on, forwards once more, towards the hopeful past,
He had ran from himself for as long as he could,
His legs ached with the heavy weight of his guilt and confusion, eyes darkened by knowledge,
He had chased his dreams down into an alley,
Brick by brick trapped them in a cellar so they could never escape,
Ignored the harsh conscience who nagged and begged at his closed ears to stop.

Dreams,
Fountain of change,
Bringer of hope,
Pusher of people,
There was still time, he thought, as he blocked his dreams away,
He could let them out and set chase another day.

She wore her bandaids like badges.

Were they badges of honour or badges of shame?

She fears them pulling up her sleeves, all the way to the shoulders, brushing the neck, for she only scratches there...

So they won't find them.

She wonders time and time again why she does what she does.

'Perhaps I am cursed' she screams out to the world, as if it were a question and not a statement which keeps ringing in her head.

She tries to tell someone, tries to articulate what she means, tries to summon up the courage.

But uncertainty and that throbbing in her shoulder lie in wait, in the form of butterflies in her stomach and a lion purring painfully in her heart.

'Do not roar' she whimpers over and over, 'Please do not say anything' she tells herself, even when she wants to speak.

She must be quiet.

So as not to awaken doubt, so as not to force others to think differently upon her, so as not to let herself be boxed in.

'But what if I want those boxes for protection?' she tries to reason with herself, but stubborness is a disease that reeks of pausing after stubbed toes to see if it is the same feeling.

Is it the same if she hurts herself by accident? Could she have
hurted herself by accident?

'I do not want self harm to write who I am' she cries unnecesarily to the sky, so blue and taunting it twinkles to her, so endless unlike her fraying and drying self.

'Do not harm yourself then' it says, as if it were that easy, as if pain and memories and shame and the need to not think haven't already corrupted her soul.

Why is she shivering?

Why can't she breathe?

'I am possessed' she reassures herself. It is not her fault that she has been taken by a demon she cannot control.

It is not her fault that she is so weak.

She says that she is possessed, not that she feels she is possessed, for she can think of no other reason for her insanity.

'I love you' god calls to her.

She is not sure which god she should pray to, not sure where she
can let her disbelief and absolution lie. How can she know what to believe in when she has surely lost belief in herself.

'Can I give up on science?' she longs to let the non-existence control her life. If only there were rules for her life.

Will they blame her?

In the end she knows they won't. Not the ones who should be listened to anyway.

Yet she continues to torture herself for reasons that are out of her grasp.

Insanity has never been her salvation, but neither has it been her reckoning.

'I am broken' she argues when someone tells her that she should
stop, that her skin is beautiful, that scratching it is only futile.

She realises it is her own conscience.

There is a dark part of her that wishes she would not heal, so she would not have to replace the marks which disappear.

'I am broken' she repeats, wondering if someone is listening to her when she speaks to empty air.

She knows they aren't.

The poet,
Notice how none call writer,
Notice how she does not call herself,
Notice how the poem plays on when she is gone,
Notice how poet does not recognise poem.

The poet,
Words do not make it so,
The rhyme and rhythm is secondary,
Speech is a privilege not a commandment,
Defined by inside not the pretence.

The poet,
Expression comes in many forms,
Of late night lunches and barely hidden smiles,
Grimaces painted like cold baritones in her chest,
Poetry is not what makes the poet,

The poet,
Is made of daisies,
Is curled 'round buttercups and beers,
Is twisted like fine wine,
Is mountainous drops of emotive chills,

The poet,
Is not alive,
Does not ask for forgiveness,
Does not read the grateful limericks,
Does not walk the line of truth and ignorance.

The poet,
Is an animal of freedom,
A whispered wisp of breath,
The closed eyes of the girl huddled to the fire,
Is tears upon his cheeks.

The poet,
Is not afraid,
Not a monster,
Not a hero,
Is only one.

The poet,
Nameless beast is she,
Forged from her sight,
Trees broken down to fight,
And holy mimicry.

We have all the time in the world
She coos to herself
Trying to pull herself out
From the pit she has buried herself in.

We have all the time in the world
We have forever
With such a cursed double-edged sword as life
Giving us freedom and pain.

She claws her way with
Dirtied fingernails
Chapped lips
A crinkled smile like a chip packet
Out of the dark hole.

The sun is too bright
And she cries out like the
Monster
She has become.

'I have everything'
She says, because it is true
She holds love like a dying bird
Smothering its freedom in a hope to keep it with her
She strangles knowledge with
A dark mind
Which thinks of nothing but broken records and the
Repeat of
'I hate myself'.

Life is beautiful
She muses as she spreads her darkness with her
Tainting all those she speaks to
Even with a glance they become ruined.

Why do you love me
She swears like it is a
Foul curse
As her mother stares at her
With too old dark eyes
That speak of ignorance
And biting knowledge.

The wind howls
'I hate you'
As if it were consoling her
Maybe it was.

It sweeps her off her feet
And carries her out to somewhere else
She had been standing too long
Almost looking living
And now needed to die for a week or so
Bury herself again
And wallow
As if her world were imperfect.

She walks to school
Always tugging at her sleeve
Always wondering if they see it
But don't care
If they see her
But don't care
If they whisper about her
But don't care.

She wonders if they care.

'Look away'
She lies
She wants a hug
But she also wants a slap
And a shout
And for someone to say
'Snap out of it, you're not a child.'

She is a child
Even if she is not
Even when she is
Her eyes are old
Yet she has seen no war
Or violence
No one hates her
No one that matters
But yet her eyes seem to absorb the elderly
As she looks around her
Stealing life from others.

'I curse my empathy'
Even when someone sneers she wonders why
She pities them
She wishes to understand their hate
She doesn't heal her bruises
She longs to heal other's bruises.

Yet she is still innumerably selfish.

The cow.

She looks behind her
Someone is there
Always there
Paranoia, hypersensitivity
She sees people who aren't there
Always about to tap her on the shoulder
And she spins around
Heart racing
Breath catching
The anxiety throb in her leg pulsing again like clockwork...

No one is there.

What do they want
She thinks loudly
Hoping they can hear her
And she won't have to say it out loud.

Truly she is selfish
Even if they asked her
She would deny them
For she hates them
All of them
For they are happy
And she is not.

Why am I angry
She whispers mournfully
She should be grateful
Look at her house
Dog
Friends
Parents
Cuts
She is so lucky
She should feel happy
Doesn't she have it all.

It is not a question
She bangs out nonsensically
Drumming away
Her fingers tapping in anxiety
And fear
And maybe sadness
And maybe cryptic malevolent amusement.

She climbs back down into her pit of despair.
Its warm.

How oddly comforting.

Dried tears taste like salt,
And spit,
And snot,
And bitterness.
They stick to the back of the throat like a frog,
Burn when they come out,
And leave tear tracks of pain and sadness behind,
Like twisted presents.

I'm seeing nooses in the shadows on my walls,
Shadow puppets dancing a mournful song,
Flashing visions of a knife over my veins,
Of my eyes closed as I accept the unacceptable.

Terror seeps into my skin as I realise my thoughts,
Pools down in my gut like acid,
Burning rings of fire through my stomach,
And I know I will think it again.

An itch on my neck keeps me awake at night,
Hissing in my ear of the pressure and release,
Tugging at my skin of how flimsy it is,
Of how temporary the pain would be.

A dark figure lies next to me,
Hot hissing breaths against my closed lids,
Whispering sweet nothings of taunted half held hearted promises,
Cooing as if I were a babe easily swayed into their arms.

So easy
It wont even hurt
Relief
An ending
An answer
No more pressure
You could be free
So easy

And I lie there,
Stiff as I pretend to sleep,
And the monster in my bed curls arms around me,
A lying mimicry of comfort.

My eyes clamp shut,
Nose flared in fear and exhaustion,
Arms wrapped around my torso to protect me from the enemy inside,
Blankets pooled in chains.

I will get through the night,
Ignore the whispers,
Sleep, I pray,
And repeat the ritual tomorrow.

He walked out as she was leaving,
Brushing fingertips and sleeves as they pushed past,
Eyes roving over their futures,
And never once pausing to look behind.

Her first job was done at the pace of a tiger,
Sight set on promotion,
Not once breathing in the low tide air-freshener,
Feeling feet tapping in impatience to move.

She perched from her ivory tower,
Gazing out at fortunes she vaguely recalled,
Mind hammering against her skull,
Screaming for more, for change, for evolution.

On her wedding day she strode down the aisle thinking of tomorrow,
Veil hanging limply, arch curled overhead and entwined with red and white roses,
Perfectly planned, to the seating placement,
Artistically sculpted smiles on the spouses.

She gazed into eyes,
A brilliant blue, stark and bold,
Staring back at her with might and purpose,
Lips parted slightly in breath.

On the birth of her daughter she thought of colleges,
Of names that would forever define them,
Of twisted last names threaded into the title of her offspring,
Of little girls with blonde hair playing on swings.

She let out a breath at the funeral,
Arms hanging limply as a man she hadn't known fell silent,
Another veil over her head,
And an empty future blossoming in front of her.

Tea drained down her throat, thick and soothing, like a mother's touch,
The porch creaked beneath her, sunlight shining shadows through autumn leaves,
And she smiled,
Never once thinking of all she had achieved.

Only the beauty of that autumn day.

Should I feel like I have won?
When the battle was only within myself,
And no one was keeping tack of points or victors,
And there was no prize other than stakes of land on my body.

Have you given up yet?
This eternal war we have declared,
Only for bragging rights,
Of I am okay or I am not,
Or saying nothing.

Why do I feel like you are waiting?
Like a trap winding inside my ribcage,
Ready to snap a bone on exit,
Ready to pounce out of the jungle and into the arena,
Waiting for me to fall asleep and for you to slip into my skin.

Should I be afraid?
That you will win and I will be left without structure,
My strings like a violin played by you, so consuming,
When I am a puppet and you are my spine,
What was once bravery now only an adrenaline high.

Should I be afraid?
That I will win and I will be left without what makes me myself,
That my fight against you stole all my desire and I will be empty,
That I will realise you have become me,
Are me,
That I will realise I have lost something you will not return.

Are you a thief?
Who has stolen the girl I used to be,
Who has stolen my bed and body,
Walking around in my stolen shoes as if you were me,
Who has stolen my goals and ideas and drive,
Who has stolen me car, perhaps, as well.

For why not that too?
When you have stolen my body,
Seduced my mind,
Staked a claim inside my room,
Piling bloodied tissues and needle packs like flags.

Should I try to run from you?
Pack my bag away in the night,
Kiss my family on the forehead one last time,
Even when you reside within me,
Even when that means I would be running from myself,
Even if I know it won't work but will try it anyway,

For I will try anything to be rid of you.

Are you a disease?
That has soaked into my sheets,
Slitted blisters and burns into my skin,
Dug crevasses like homes in my mind,
Burrowed deeply in my heart so you can make me cry all the time.

Am I doing enough?
With my some-day-never therapy and robot listeners,
My unwritten diary which lies lonely and neglected under blankets like shields,
When I do not know if I have a problem,
Or cannot admit to one,
Even when I say I so,
Like empty words,
But I cannot believe it.

Will I give up soon?
Since it is easy to,
Since you want me to,
Since some days I want me to,
Since no one is listening for my sanity to come back,
Since I am not sure if I care anymore.

Are you my character?
My basis for being,
My summed up understanding,
My morals and drawn lines,
And is that a synonym for distraction,
Or block,
Or love,
Or enemy,
Or addiction,
Or... destiny.

Why can't I quit you when I want to so much?

Some questions don't have the answers I want.

Her name is Red.
Red from the cuts that drip lower and lower until her sleeves get longer and longer to the point where they sweep the ground.
Red from the imaginary glint in her eye, one that is anger, one that is love, one that tries to burn back the black paint of hatred that threatens to consume her.
Red from that time she remembers following, thinking, 'for once I will be brave', that day her cheeks are bruised red from embarrassment, she is not a friend but a stalker they say.
Red from the thought in her mind, buzzing over and over until her ears can only hear it and only it. How can it be repeating so often when it sounds so insincere and incomplete?
She names herself Red, pushing away the other things she calls herself, trying to drown her failures in solitude and a new brand.
Red is a strong girl, with too much heart and too little sense.
Red has a clean heart, clean eyes, clean shirt and clean arms.
Red has no problems, other than that she cares too much.
Red locks it away, boxes them up, cups her ears and ignores the screams from the chained toy box in the corner of the room.
Red is a child, she clings to innocence with the grip of a wrench and the tenacity of a monkey.
Red does not count the people who whisper sweet sorrows behind her ears, but the people who pull her into half-in half-out embraces.
Red picks and chooses her thoughts, thinking of only positives, and screens all nightmares and attacks and faults.
Red is faultless, infallable, invincible and incomplete, there has never been a day that she was not happy, and there has never been a when she dreamt of her insecurities.
Red calls herself Red for she cannot call herself 'I', she is as impersonal as she is broken.
I am not Red, for Red is not real, even if I don't wish to accept that.
Let me be Red for a day and you will see hours cut and sobbed down the drain.
If it were Red she would be a half-happy half-girl with half-days and half-smiles... Half of Red's days she never even sees for one so limitless and all powerful cannot be maimed by a real person's problems.
Red shows no weakness, no sound, for Red is the colour of self-deceptions, lies and unlit badly sculpted illusions.
Red is blind, deaf and dumb if she cannot understand what is occuring around her.
'Ignorance is bliss' she never heard the phrase, for Red is uncultured, unlearned and speaks no language.
Red is an unforfilled idolised symbol.
Red is me, and I am not her.

Poetry is as dark as night
It is a mortal sin which crawls like bugs under my skin and makes me think
Sweet painful absolute thoughts
Of ****** truths and naked insults.

Poetry, you beast, foul creature I've possessed
You make me try to see myself
Make me try and let the walls down and
Drop my achy mouth from its plastic smiles.

Don't make me understand, or realise
That all will be better soon
Don't sing praises and preach quotes
Of rainbows and green fields.

Let me wallow in my misery
Moan of 'oh woe the world is cruel to me'
Bypassing guilt and self hatred and
Eye opening openness.

Don't fill my ears with cries of
'Could have been worse'
'At least you're not them'
'You have a family'
'Don't be so selfish'.

Poetry you sinful pleasure, you crooked slash across my throat
Don't force me to call you beautiful
When you are treacherous
And push me too far.

I want
For once
To cry
And not say to myself
'at least you don't want to die'.

I want
To sing my problems
And
Hear no snide comments
About how 'I aint the only girl with issues'

Poetry, you expressionistic trench-coat
Shield me with your overused rhymes and metaphors
Oh, poetry, I beg of you, curl your arms around me tight
So I won't feel so cold with only myself

And those voices

Begging

Tauntingly

Pleading

With me not to cry.

Poetry, treasure trove of my soul
Let me pour all my crap into you
So its gone
From me
And I don't have to carry it any longer
With red raw hands and splintered nails
From scratching at the surface too long.

Poetry, tree for me to burn black and blue
Let me bruise you
Let me tear my pages
Draw insulting doodles on your skin
Covering my writing.

Poetry is my deepest valley
Filled with things I just can't say
Piled high with problems I don't want to comprehend
Compressed until people just

Look away

And convince themselves.

Hands linked in broken chains of blinding freedom,
She could hardly speak it was so beautiful,
So open and calm, like the break of dawn only just bleeding orange over the hills,
Animals waking from their slumber, men waking next to their wives with starlight in their eyes.

Love, a cure and illness so contradictory and poisonous,
Addictive in the most beautiful and traitorous way,
It was fate to **** for love, to die, to live, to remember,
Such harsh truths written and remembered,
And she was at the verge of it all.

She stood, head tilted back to the sky, catching reflected beauty of clouds on her neck,
Feet dangling over the rickety and dangerous edge of a water fall,
Steam rising in mighty waves, splashing water against her naked face,
Arms held out in triumph and freedom,
The scars of old rope burns healed into white marks of forgotten history.

Children cried at the burning glory of it,
The peace that had entrenched into their hearts and minds like magic,
A pulsing energy that scoped the land away from the harsh reality of war and violence,
They could remember the bitter taste of hunger on their tongues,
Parched mouths and brown beaten sunned backs, red from the scorched heat.

It was over, the crops were sprung up a new,
Rain cleaning away rivers of blood,
Dirt smouldering from explosions and ash sunken fires,
Freedom was ***** and glorious, bright like the deadly majesty of the sun,
Light pooling over the corpses like angelic offerings.

War was gone, and peace had pushed through the roughened land,
It was a bitter but desired coo in their chests,
To remember those that were gone, but to live on in harmony for those that remained,
Peace was not won with flowers and songs,
But with bloodshed,
They were the lucky ones to look upon the gruesome aftermath with hope.

Smelt like scented candles,
Tilted her world on its axis,
And trailed soft fingers down her spine,
Paralleled fingerprints on her hips,
Drawing a sharp intake of breath.

Just friends.

Sure.

Eyes traced over aged lines,
Skimming eyebrows like dates,
Mesmerised by the glory of that boring iris,
Brown eyes,
Chocolate brown,
Dark and brooding,
Curled in expansive beauty.

Sometimes he mentioned it,
How she stared to long,
If she needed a picture,
If she understood they were friends,
And her heartbeat pulsed guiltily in her wrist,
Writhing in agonised worship of his features.

He wasn't pretty like a model,
He wasn't even very average looking,
Dotted with scars,
An oval face,
Nose pricked to obscenity.

God she loved him,
Like the moon loved the sun,
Always keeping her difference,
Gazing from afar,
Breath pooling in hot puffs over his ears,
Gorgeous sculpted ears.

Stubble traced his chin,
Eyelashes were thin and sparse,
Skin rough and textured,
Like a farmer,
Although she knew he had never worked a day in his life.

Ugly,
Oh so ugly,
But so delectable,
So achingly entrancing,
Pulling her eyes away from words and numbers,
Over vast mounds of skin to his,
Unbreakable expression.

He never smiled,
Maybe that was for the best,
She'd probably faint...
He was a deadly man,
And all deadly men had dazzling smiles.

I am a vampire under the full moon,
Live by day,
Cursed by night,
Trapped in a never ending cycle of thought and discord.

My wings spread darkly over open plains,
Casting shadows and whispered ruffles of black feathers,
Bleeding profusely in the morning sun,
Making my spine arch and wince against the heat.

I am a monster,
I know that now,
Forever trapped in the body of a girl,
And haunted of deeds I have not committed.

I ebb and flow with the tides,
Changing soul as they wash in and curl out,
Watching the darkened oceans rise to light with morning,
And seeing morning fail to the bitterness of nighttime.

Come dawn I smile and shine like the sun,
Hug friends as if we were lovers,
Make jokes as if I held humour,
Hold hands as if mine weren't claws.

By dusk the change sets in,
Sinking bones out of place in my skin,
Reflecting battled moonlight off my crimson gaze,
Pulling tears of blood from my bitten lips.

I walk in and out of shadows,
Basking in the treacherous darkness that completes me,
Holding my own bleeding heart in my hand,
And crying as if I had a right to.

At night I am not a girl,
No, when alone and surrounded I am gone,
Off with the breeze,
And my soul is taken by a ghoul of definite cruelty.

Thoughts bleed into my skull,
Drip dangerously down until I am drowning,
Pulling old rhymes and repeated phrases,
Until even the monster is crying inside me.

I hold out a shaking hand,
Lift it up above the tree-line,
Stretching limbs as if they were rubber,
And waiting,
Always waiting,
To see if someone could pull me up.

Monster or not.

He was missing an arm,
It was gone,
Missing,
One morning,
Hacked away,
Blood seeping into his bed,
Hands... Hand trembling,
Shaking,
His whole body, bed, life...
Shaking.

It wasn't a clean cut,
He thought,
As he showered wearing clothes,
It was ragged,
Hacked off,
Unclean and not smooth,
There were scars up his arm,
As if they were reaching for his neck...

To cut his neck too.

He hadn't cried yet,
He couldn't,
His eyes were dry but he was screaming inside,
He turned to liquor,
And it burned like fire down his throat,
Turned to ****,
And made his stomach swing like a metronome,
And head quieten for a while.

It all wore off too soon.

He hadn't slept in weeks,
It felt like weeks,
Minutes branded into his skull,
Tattoos of dates on his arms... arm.

He always forget his arm was missing,
Always forgot he would never see it again,
It didn't seem real,
Felt forced and... broken,
Like he couldn't walk,
Couldn't move a muscle,
Almost afraid he would lose it too.

He didn't leave the house,
Windows rattled ominously,
Fridge screeched emptily,
Bed creaked like a child's scream,
A wail,
A sob,
Broken and complete and so darkly mesmerising.

He thought he would starve,
That his stomach would cave in from the inside,
Walls would tremble in fluctuating burns and hisses,
Eyes rolled back into his head,
Tongue out in disgrace,

Arm. Missing.

He felt like he had lost a limb,
When he had picked up that phone,
Felt plastic against his ear,
The quietened words of concern,
And halting sentence.

Sulphur burned his throat black,
Rubber smelt better than his rotting arm,
Blood looked better than wine.

“She is dead.”

It felt like he was missing a limb.