The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.
When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.
If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.
But most people don’t see it.
Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.
The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
Extinguished beneath the pressure of stifling darkness;
the blackness a behemoth caressing me with oil slick fingers.
Bound with shackles of my own forging,
chained to the dank confinement of shame with iron bracelets made up of every hurt I felt, each sting I’d inflicted.
Comforted by the weight of my own disease, dragging me down deeper into the depths of myself;
swarmed by demons cutting slices of me for their devouring.
Blistered fingers claw at the dirt, broken nails taking insignificant strongholds in the battle.
New shackles being forced into place where old ones were severed, cutting new wounds where old ones were healed.
Then, a searing light burns through the airless tomb where I lay,
my sweat still glistening in the after hours of my latest debasement.
Eyes burning, unaccustomed to the phosphorescent glow after years of stapling them shut to the vision of horror I became.
A new tsunami of dishonour throws me back, twisting my shackles tighter around bound limbs.
Now I am free and live to feel the sun on my skin, no longer translucent and sallow.
Each sound and sensation sending ripples of pleasure through my soul, but still
I limp, and my wrists are scarred.
always one. A
solitary tear that I can't
hold back. One for each day,
That rolls down onto my pillow.
I worry, that if one more were
to fall, I would never be able
to stop the torrent that
would come after.
I look for you in the sun rise,
Your face in cloud formation.
I feel your kiss as the light crests,
Your soul shining on the horizon.
Yet the sun does not warm my skin,
The way your breath warms my face;
You holding my head in your hands,
As we lock in our embrace.
Written for my husband on Valentine's Day
she was as the smell of smoke,
clinging to my fingertips.
a linger of reckless abandon.
she was always the first ****,
burning my throat as i inhale.
fingertips, trailing constellations,
sweat glistening as the smoke coils.
i need fresh air.
but my lungs are black,
and i cannot breathe unaided.
I want to be loved like the sea,
When I'm a tropical blue, and respected
For my tumultuous depths.
Love me like the sea.
Come, bathe in me when I am warm and
Gaze down into me when I am crystal.
Love me still when I am murky.
Come, find beauty in my roaring waves and
Keep your bow forward when I am stormy.
Love me like the sea.
Watch, see how I can kiss the shore or
See how I can beat my fist against it.
Yes, I want to be loved like the sea.
For the sun shines on my surface,
Yet darkness lurks within.
It started with a kiss.
A burn of acid across my cheek,
It's poisoned implication:
"Here, this is the woman you seek."
It followed with thirty pieces,
The weight cumbrous in hand.
Your wine and bread so exquisite,
Suddenly fell flat, turned to sand.
It climaxed with Damascus,
Truth a blinding light across my eyes.
I'd betrayed all I am for silver,
Cheered as you shaped my demise.
It ended with a field of blood.
My innards spilled onto the ground,
Blooded hands foraging:
"I was lost but now I'm found."
This is written from a place of faith deconstruction, of feeling as if I betrayed who I am and what I know through another's coercion and false promises.