The white pages, they taunt me
Haunt me
Empty canvas stripped of colour
Somehow duller
And I'm dimmer too for that
A fading glimmer
Each line shakes as I run away
Disappearing yesterdays
The heat hardens my fingertips
Faucets drip
Grasping at thin red strings
My aching heart
Cannot sing

I oftentimes find myself compensating for my creation

As if merely existing is an extraordinarily enormous insult in itself

And my reason for living is to repeatedly apologize for breathing

Because the space I am apart of isn't and never will be where I am wanted

It's three a.m. & I am not asleep

How could I close my eyes to nights like these?

When thunder rumbles my ribcage and breathes an ache into my chest

Where water droplets drip onto my thoughts & liquefy them

Lightning coursing through my shaking veins

Every strike echoing & electrifying my brain

Chilly breaths that creep along my skin, serenading it

My cigarette with every pull more luminant

I've circumvented myself into side effects of hopelessness

The sounds of rain stripping me softly into submissive erosion..

Cigarettes* ignited
       sips of champagne.
Naked; smoking,
       playing ebony & ivory,
       piano stories
Singing souls of ghosts
        & secrets.
Broken rainbows form & flee,
        light catching green
Hazel eyes, tear drops,
       of love; forming
       drowning oceans.
Planting forests; replacing
        papier- mâché covering
        a blackened heart,
Of a lonely girlfriend
        wrapping herself in a
        lovers left
        winter jumper.
Full exposure; a camera lens
        focused in on clouds
        dissipating.
Window panes,
         pouring mirrored drops
         of translucent balloons.
Wishing dreams
          of,
Letting
          go.
Lift her,
           to that place named,
           silence.

© Sia Jane

I have grown tired,
After only a short twenty years,
Of being something for your eyes.
Tired of slurred compliments,
Uttered from behind glazed eyes,
And catching eyes flick up
from where they had been stuck-
Wow! This person has *******!

Sick of hearing calls and jeers,
shouted from across the street,
from inside of a car,
from the base of an over-sexualised,
and over-sexualising brain.

And so in an attempt to remove myself from such *******,
I have been de-sexualising myself.
I wear long, ill-fitting trousers,
Baggy tops, and thick Doc Martens.
I pull up hair up,
Put my glasses on,
I do not bother with make-up.
I glare and I scowl.
Yet still unwanted attention
Has been able to find me.

Still you grab and grasp at me,
As if I were but a toy at your disposal.
I turned to one,
and looking in his eyes,
I clearly said "No.".
A dog, a child, a human,
Would have understood me;
Yet he did not.

I turned again when his hands didn't stop.
"*******, I said No."
"Slap me, baby, I'm sorry!"
He leered, not sorry in the least.
"I'm not going to hit you.
I'm saying no,
and you're going to respect that."

He left for a moment,
Only to return as handsy as before.

I tell you honestly,
I have no idea
What more I'd need to do
To get some people to see me
Not as a real-life *** toy,
But as a *******
human
being.

I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.

A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered

In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,

Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.

I have slept in my bed 800 times
799 times I have slept in between sheets alone, without you
And yet that 735th night
Is what haunts me on night 801
Without you.
I need to get a new bed
And new sheets
And new skin
That you have not touched me in.