Suffering is an art form

Like everything I have ever done
I have mastered it

The slow murmur of movement
Dogged by depression

The hummingbird’s frantic song
Of anxiety

The drifting of days marked only
By the ticking of a broken watch

I am war
And famine
And disease

For as long as I have breathed air
It has been poisonous

A toxic oxygen

I have learnt the art of dying
Without death

The finality of it never quite succeeding
The motion of my desire for it

I want to purge my body of the filth
That has been inflicted on it

Trauma that seems impossible to carry
On my shoulders

I am a tree grown from a bitter root
Planted into the ground as an afterthought

My braches twisted, leaves that will never know
The brilliant colours of autumn

But I stand, still
Weathered and beaten and broken

Still, I stand

There exists a photograph
of me, smudged now,
the image grainy

it acts like a cross
around my neck

it it not hope
or comfort

or even faith

but a reminder
to never make

the same mistakes
again

I have spent my life
drying out, like wood
left in the sun

shrinking back into
the shape I was
born

rather than the
woman I wanted
to grow into

we were lovers
leaving no footprints in the sand
like ghosts
we walked the earth
lighter than air
and higher than heaven

love was the only
gravity we needed

I woke up from a nightmare
I could not stand to keep
to myself

you were stretched across the couch
coffee going cold on the table
a half finished cigarette
still burning

you wrapped me up
in kind words that
I could not bare
to hear

whispered into my ear
"one day we will go wandering
and this tiny house will overspill
with dreams'

you are not your memories, darling
you are not the bad things
that have been done to you
you are a fierce flame
that warms my heart

forget them, my love
they are nothing
and you, and you
are everything

to be real
in a false
world

is like wearing
a corset made
of your own
bones

your heart
weakly beating
beneath your
armour

it pulses red
fist shaped
and ready
to fight

the creatures
that lurk
like spectres
in the dark
corners of
your mind

it's not up
to you if
you win
this fight

only you
try, you
try, you
try

If there was some amazing
force of nature
twist of fate
that could bring us back
to that night
where we held hands on an open beach
the ocean wide mouthed and hungry
devouring minutes until morning
the sand twisting like time beneath our feet
there were only secrets and whiskey
and our hands
classed so tightly
fighting off daylight