How can you know me,
    When you've only seen my skin
There is not way
    I could possibly portray
    More than a distorted fragment
        Of the twisted universe
            That resides inside my head.

I try  my dear,
    Oh how hard I try!
But it is futile you see,
    For how can I form words
        To convey who I am
When I myself
Do not even understand
Who I Have Become.

I am both the wound,
And the blade. The torturer,
And he who is flayed.

I like the colour purple,
     as it blooms across my skin,
The delicate spread of lavender,
     dappled with yellow and green.

I like the smell of iron,
     of copper pennies and blood
As it oozes form a scab
     or drips from a fresh cut.

I like the feel of my ribs,
     the bones beneath my skin,
The curve of my skull under my cheek,
     Or the joints of every knuckle.

I feel homesick for a place that doesn't exist.
I am homesick but I am at home.
Why am I homesick in my own home?
Where will I stop feeling homesick?
Everyone else feels safe at home.
When will I stop feeling homesick?
Do I even need a home?

Blood drips,
            oozes,
                      In lurid globes
Down the shadowed folds of heavy velvet.
            cloying stench,
                      shattered china.

Your spine is twisted under stretched yellow skin,
Disjointed vertebrae break through, glinting white.
Your lost words heavy on your tongue,
Ringing in my ears.
Every villain believes
   they are a hero dear.
         even me.

The sharp jagged edge,
An exhausted little beak
Bedraggled feathers.

Torn from mother's womb.
Lungs strain with gasps of cold air,
Unforgiving world.