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Annelyra Dec 2017
The night you died, I was telling
someone else how *******
annoying you are. I'd give up
the strings that hold my soul
together to spread you,
you irritant,
across my skin now.
Annelyra Jun 2016
I painted you a feather.
It was meant to be white;
you always told me that
when you died, you'd
send me white feathers
so I knew you were still
there, somewhere. But
my paintbrush was *****,
not pure, so feather
sullied with streamlined
streaks of flaxen brown.

I painted you a feather.
You didn't see it. By then,
your sickness was causing
you to fade behind the eyes
and I worried about the day
you didn't recognise me,
anymore. That day came,
and went. I worried that
my feather was an ill omen,
it's imperfections sat inside
my eyelids and in my dreams
sometimes your hair was
replaced with feathers all
splattered and sad.

I painted you a feather.
I wanted it as airy and soft
as a dandelion clock, but
canvas is dense and unyielding.
The corridors of the ward
were lined with ineffectual
acrylic offerings, and I felt
they should have portrayed what
we could understand; uncertainty,
confusion, a four leaf clover.
A lady in a too-big hospital bed.

I painted you a feather.
I criticised it at first, you know.
All I saw when I looked
were wobbles and wrinkles.
Then, I remembered how
much I loved your face,
flecked with experience, and
how you used to limp
a little when you walked,
and so maybe the creases
and crinkles of my oil paint
creation weren't to be
criticised after all.

I painted you a feather,
and it sits alone on my
bookshelf. It is heavy,
flawed, human.
I almost wish I had painted
you that dandelion clock, now,
because then I could squeeze
it between my grieving fingers
and wish you back home.
Annelyra Jun 2016
Princess Mononoke is still my favourite film
even though I know that when the dark monkeys
start speaking, if you'd been there, you would
have half-laughed in freaked-out amusement
('That is the most bizarre dubbing I've ever seen!')

It's still my favourite film, even though I know
when the Princess says 'I hate humans!' you
would have nodded and said 'yep.' It's still
my favourite film even though I would prefer
to watch it in the reflections of your eyes. It's
still my favourite film, even though your hair
isn't obscuring my view. It's still my favourite,
it is, it's still my favourite, even though the old shadow
of you is painting the inside of my arms black
and even though you promised that the next time
I saw it, we would be only atoms away from
each other, and I thought I would be able to feel the
heat from your heart beating in the palms of your hands.
I guess I had hoped you would lend me that
warmth to wrap around my fingertips but
it's fine, I can wear gloves, and hope they
don't simply keep the cold in.

It's still my favourite, it's still my ******* favourite,
it's still my favourite even though the colour has
bled out of it a little, and I know it has to do with you
because I saw this photo of you on Facebook and
I swear your wrists were stained with that lost dye.
I wondered at the time if you'd noticed it was
there, or if you were just like a guilty child
with lips unconsciously covered in strawberry jam
contrasting with a brightly innocent smile.
I swear it was there, even though every photo of you is
made of splinters, now, my eyes must have realised that
it's not good for me to look at you, I think, so the
alarm begins to sound and their sprinkler system
drenches my cheeks with cold water and
as a result of this your picture fractures,
it fragments into crystalline pieces that can't
splatter an explanation mark on the surface
of my brain, the way your silhouette does.
How lucky I am that my eyes, at least, are on my side.
Those shards of you are sharp, though, and as
your picture shatters inside my eyes, I am
nearly always left with shrapnel wounds. They
embed, you know, and I have this feeling that
they migrate towards each other under my skin,
so despite my precautions, your face is tattooing
itself, scratch by scratch, onto my retina.
Annelyra Jan 2016
Never again do I want to sleep,
to leave another evening
for my dreams, without
your heat seeping through
the back of my pyjamas,
please.
Annelyra Mar 2015
As I sit, one night, waiting
for you to grace me with
your evanescent (ever-late) presence,
it occurs to me that, if I
described the symptoms of
having you in my life to a
Medical Doctor, they would
no doubt tell me I had some
variety of viral disease.

Hello, Google.
What are the most common
symptoms of a virus?
'Common symptoms that indicate
the body is under viral attack include:
Fever
Sleep Disturbance
Severe Headaches
Confusion
Fatigue.'

Fever.
Increase in ****** temperature.
You have raised my temperature
so high that I could barely
breathe through the condensation
lining my lungs, just from
looking up under your hair
at me with those outrageous
eyes, that perfectly placed
tooth on lower lip, those
infinitely delicate fingertips.
I felt the heat in my head
every time I read the words
I wanted so badly to see and
thought you were telling me
something I wanted to know.
Fever? Check.

Sleep Disturbances.
Well.
To this day, I can count
no less than five occasions
when I have longed to
clamber into Sleep's sweet
chariot, but waited behind
for you, holding my eyelids
open with your promises.
You let me down
every time.
Eventually, those promises
dissolved into droplets
and my eyes fell shut,
with your empty words
and my disappointment
mingling on my cheeks.
This is not to mention
the late-night conversations
I entertained only because
I was terrified it was
late-night or nothing.
Sleep Disturbances?  My friend,
it is way beyond disturbed.
I am positively deprived.

Severe Headaches.
Jesus.
Can I tick this one twice?
The thought of your evasions
and excuses makes the
blood vessels in my head
expand and contract at
a rate that is truly unhealthy.
In fact, nowadays, they
preempt the inevitable
and begin their undulations
at the mere sight of your name.

Confusion. The mistaking
of one thing for another, or
an uncertain state of being.
For example, the confusing of
someone who gives a ****
with someone who doesn't!
As far as I am concerned,
if I love someone, I will
collect the discarded feathers
of suburban English birds
and glue them together with
prittstick and melted hope.
I will sew these homemade wings
to my shoulder blades, and I
will fly close to the surface of
the ocean, without looking up.
I will do Icarus's father proud,
and I will arrive at the door
unscathed and smiling, decorated
with my loyal, makeshift wings.
There is no space for uncertainty
when you are in my arms.
But, like a neglected puppy,
chained to a dingy backyard fence,
I cannot forgo the scraps you
fling at me carelessly; you feed my
starvation indifferently, sparsely .
When these scraps are suddenly
retracted, the hunger is sharp
against the lining of my stomach.
Is there a hungry creature on
the planet who understands
why they must suffer?
Confusion; I am painted in it.

Fatigue.
All that sickening fatigue.
I feel it between my bones
as another thing is left unsaid.
I feel it crawling along my skin
every time I pretend I'm okay
with how this is going, or not going.
The fatigue of you spins in
my synapses, it crashes over me,
wave after wave, until I don't
think I have the strength to fight.

The fact that I need to fight
your influence at all tells
me everything I need to know.
With herbal tea and plenty of sleep,
with people, distraction, music,
I will soothe the symptoms of you.
Soon, my self-esteem will no longer
be your host cell; you will not
reproduce your ego with the
linings of my membranes again.
I will not sit up late, nursing
my headache whilst you invade
and conquer atom after atom
of my precious sense of worth.
I will settle only for symbiosis.

As I sit, one night, waiting for
you to grace my life with
your evanescent presence,
I suddenly see that, medically,
we are merely virus and host.
Doctor?
Vaccinate me.
Annelyra Feb 2015
My heartfelt thanks
must go, once again,
to the omnipresent
Media Machine.
This time, I'd like
to turn my applause
towards Hollywood.
Hardworking Hollywood,
not content with merely
flattening our bodies into
cardboard cut-outs
and planting them on
the other side of the mirror;
That was so easy
to achieve!
Mirror, mirror, have I
got thinner?
Ladies and gentlemen,
this time they have
stolen not only our
self-esteem; they reached
out and took quirkiness, smiles,
geekiness, beautiful eyes.
They borrowed sensitivity,
desirability,
spirituality,
endless 'why?'s.

They took, in short,
a small portion of me.
They poured these
evanescent qualities
into a bowl full of
dough, and they mixed
and they mixed, until
finally they had something
the colour of roses
and honey, cookie dough
full of of sunshine and
everything that glows.

With fingers and rolling pins,
this star-dusted combination
was teased into the
shape of a Hollywood heroine.
She was left raw, without
depth, a template
with the potential to rise.
Despite her incompletion,
she was wheeled out into
the limelight that night.
Here, we present to you
our latest creation!

Without further ado,
may I introduce you to the
Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
She is half of a creature,
all sparkle and no darkness.
Ups without the downs,
Selflessness without the sighs.
Got a girlfriend? Doesn't matter!
She's conveniently allergic
to commitment.
Either that or she exists only
on the anonymous internet.
She will show you the infinite
loveliness of living, and you
don't even have to introduce
her to your parents!
By then, she's flown away
on a cloud made of sugar
or fallen down a well,
or something.

Something in me, my
eccentricity, correlates with
this half-drawn template.
Tell me, though, Hollywood.
What happens to the rest?
When I'm fighting my mind,
am I Manic Depressive Nightmare *****?
When I am too tired for skipping
through the night with a sensitive
man-child, showing him how
to live and to love and to laugh,
am I Moody Pessimistic
Downer Woman?
There is only something of me
in everything of her.

To Hollywood, I say
******* and **** your lobotomy.
I don't want to be served
sunny side up
on a plate made of rainbows
to the entire Western world.
Don't list my name in
the title of your painting,
your dimly-lit canvas of
some blurred girl-shaped blob.
Don't take one of my colours
and turn it into a concept,
so that men cannot
recognise the rest
of my spectrum.
I am not some filtered,
****** up, bloodless
work of art.

So, raise your glasses
and smile as we bequeath
our most sarcastic thanks,
then, unto the fine creators
of this ridiculous fairy.
Because, of course, we could
always, always use reminding
that we are inevitably,
unredeemably
2D.
Annelyra Feb 2015
I conduct electricity
like a scientist's *******
these ocean eyes invite
the caresses of lightning
and whilst water cannot
burn, it can boil and froth

the skies in my lungs are
so low on oxygen
we're 30,000 feet up
what a
long way
to fall
I'm perpetually breathless
and willing to fly higher
will you lend me your wings?
the bones in mine crumpled
the first time I fell and
yours are so strong
so obsidian
so smooth

at first you are gentle
your words are like prayers
encircling my hands
in worship of ourselves
but with a rush
of blood
to my traitorous flesh
I know that
those prayers are
the kisses of artists
sinful
bohemian
beyond moral reason
under this caress
I'm a fallen goddess

we shouldn't be touched
by such lustful hands but
I only find life in your
technicolor dreams
so
turn me into art
with scarlet finger paints
use moonbeams and blood
scrawl a
calligraphic signature
on my collarbone
scratch my
porcelain surface
press your lips
to the wound
although don't forget
once those prints
stain my skin
I am evidence
exquisite and quivering
you're the suspect
enchanted and shivering

and who should be the
forensics team but you?
I should have known
I suppose
my body is a playground
not a crime scene
I swear
why won't you settle
for less than my soul?
perhaps this is some
past-life retribution
or divine intervention
for the broken angel
of your pagan religion
take me out of your dreams
and I'll build you a god
we will lie at its feet
and idolise the night

Idols are outlawed.
You paint guilt
on my features
and tell me
you're waiting.
I tell the truth
the whole truth
nothing but truth
the hammer falls hard
they don't know
we're perverse
my verdict is kind

Fill her with lightning.
Hands bound,
ankles tied,
heart screeching,
nerves singing.
Through it all
you adore
my slow execution.
With your teeth in
my neck, you feed
on my sighs,
helpless twirls,
hopeless hips,
shocks that
spin down my spine.
You conduct electricity
like sheets
of pure silver,
and the sparks
in my veins
heat your skin
in its turn.

Victorious, glorious
Lord High Executioner.
Hold the current
to my throat
and don't stop
never stop
(I could snap if you stop)
til my lips
are sparkling
with static.
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