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Esther Mar 2021
when do you think of me?
because i am haunted by you;
every time i step into the shower,
soaked in reminders to scrub behind my ears.
'dont forget to', you used to say.
no, even now i never forget to-
i scrub in remorse,
burdened by anger,
plagued by betrayal,
unclean even after my skin
is rubbed raw,
clung onto by your sins;
somehow, i am not allowed to forget you.

drenched, i can only ask your memory:
'when do you think of me?'
because i hope it is never,
just as much as i hope it is
a very hellish, 'always'.
personal and painful and not all that well written
Esther Feb 2020
we rise from the nests of our joined ashes
again and again - lovers and friends
wondering if change is possible
when change is all that we are -
bodies of re-creation
built to be rebuilt
in dusty increments
Esther Sep 2019
the sun rises east of my heart,
shocking the cold with rays of tenderness that spread.
at noon it is eclipsed by my soul,
still ablaze,
brightness pooling around the edges of the bubbling mass of myself.
it journeys west in a trail blazed of longing
until it leaves the caverns of my ribs
cold once more.
yet there is no longer a bite to the chill,
for the promise of warmth thumps in my arteries.
my new reality is bright -
for she will rise again
and in that i must trust.
Esther Aug 2018
Every face is a story
Etched into the air we breathe /
          And these journeys
Lead us to paper lives of survival’s manifest,
Where solid colours refuse to exist
- And black and white enmesh
To cloud the streams of speech
We use to guide us to
The non-existent chapter
Of complete understanding /
          Leaving fingerprints
That overlap over others
Until an artwork is forced
/out/ of our ghostly presence,
Always to be remembered
By all we’ve touched -
Long after memory has lost itself...
In the streets of brains
Trying their best to rest after they have successfully
/etched/ themselves into the fabric
Of spinning time and a gravitational pull
Breathing out one last patch
To add to humanity’s short stretch,
To feel the very essence
Of reality within them
Before returning to the beginning /
Every face is a story
a lost poem, found, edited. est. jan 2016.
Esther Nov 2017
Retracted are these tendons -
Resolved on remaining in their calcified cages;
When breath arrives, it is blown back
And when warmth envelopes, it is posted away promptly.
Seeking only that which is ineffectual -
Side-tracking all traumatic pain
For the comfort of the constant daily struggle.
Speaking only to the bleak and familiar
In colours reddish and blue to the coloured lens above its eyes;
A body of uncomfortable comfort and avoidant pleasure
Sits upon its earthly thrown and ponders -
Ponders all that it will reject today and the day after.
Esther Jul 2017
To all my demons:
Hello and welcome – back.
My chest is open for your return,
Pining for the familiar pressure
Of your phantom limbs pressed against my ribs
And slowing the blood flow to my heart.
I wonder, has your presence really lessened me?
Has your presence really ruined me?
Because the lower the blood pressure,
The harder it is to gather up
The courage, the steadiness, the willingness
To act on your orders.

To all my demons:
Hello and how are you – today?
I can’t say I don’t think about your well-being
The moment I wake from the loneliness,
Thinking maybe I’ll never get an answer
If you ever stay away.
They say you’re never really fulfilled,
Until you wish upon your enemies
The same happiness you want for yourself;
And here I am in this pit you’ve dug for me,
Floating on my tears,
Hoping in silence for your own freedom - from me.
My own pruning hands will hold the door shut
As I say this,
Hoping you continue to suffocate us both,
Gracing me with your reliable company – daily.
Esther Jul 2017
Let this taste last you a second longer,
Roll it out of each bud and into another
As the flavour dissipates, remember,
You have ingested more of yourself
Than you have of any other lover;
Your eternal loneliness is self-sufficient,
Flavourful, nutritious, delicious… etc. etc.
Indulge in the phantom of your lasting selves.
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