Of the mole
I had
In the middle of my neck.

It was pea-sized,
And brown
And slightly dangerous.

So they took it off
And all that's left
Is a faint, barely seen scar.

As I examined my
Wounds Of The Day
In the mirror, I noticed
The scar again.

I had not remembered
It was there, or that there was
Ever a mole, by which
It was caused.

It's not a secret, deep and
Desperate enough, for me to
Tell my friends about, so they
Don't know I had a mole.

But it did happen, and was
A prominent feature,
Of my earlier years.

I find it odd,
That such a thing
Can be just casually ignored.

I find it logical,
That such a thing
Will be just casually ignored.

But the cluelessness
Of those closest
Awes me still.

I. My knife is poised and ready,
I approach the easy ones first,
The nicely shaped ones which are
Flat at the bottom and round on top,
Only then moving on to
The misfits, the oddly shaped ones.
I criss cross cuts over their shells-
You will open up to me,
The cuts promise.

II. I cut them open
And thought about them.
I stole one, tore it apart
And put it in my mouth.
It was warm, and sweet,
And good, and,
I thought,
They'd probably like it.

III. The looks on their faces
As I deliver them more
Of the warmth.
As they take them into
Their hands, their
Fingers closing around
The miracle look-a-likes.
The rhythm of my feet
As I take out the remains
And eat them, on the way
Away, trying
To making myself feel better,
Failing.
They leave only
A bitter aftertaste.

IV. And in a few years
It will be a proper winter day
And we'll all have free evenings.
It'll rain, and we will decide
To spend the free time
Together.
We'll watch a movie, or
Something.
Or something.
And I'd buy chestnuts
On my way back home and
We'll eat them
Together.

Two years
Since my fists pounded
On the figures of book characters
On my wall.

Two years
Since my fingers plucked
Monotonously at strings
As I let the melody fill me
And the tears course down my cheeks.

Two years
Since I dialed the phone
Repeatedly, searching, in vain,
For someone with whom, I hoped
I could share my pain.

Two years later,
My fists,
My fingers,
My cheeks,
Need not suffer anymore.

For I have found the ones
Who would answer my call,
And even though they can't replace her,
They help to cushion the fall.

I ramble.
That is what I do
How I talk
How I think
A long line
Of thoughts, branching out
Jumping from one place
To another, before
Returning to my main route,
Or else losing themselves,
Completely
In the sea of my mind.
I like it this way
I lie to myself
It makes life more interesting
I convince myself,
And I'm a pretty good lair,
So I believe
And live
On, with this
Rambling life
And rambling goal
And rambling mind.

I lie in bed,
In my own filth
I haven't cleaned
My bedroom in ages.
It's filled with scattered
Books, ***** cloth and
Worthless, abandoned pages.

I kept it up to humane standards
As long as I'd visitors once a week,
But now that I see them so scarcely
My room has begun to reek.

I only ever do the right thing
When someone else is watching
Only when I want their good opinion
Will you see me washing
Dishes
In the sink.

(I never do
The ***** dishes
Unless I have someone
To impress.)

But it hurts, that and
My sore throat - Raw
From transporting the substances
I cough out of my lungs.

The pain and the phlegm
All pass through it
The lungs inflicting their pain
Upwards into my head.

The last spot of sanity
Clear and calculating
Filling up with everything
My lungs cannot handle.

Threatening to explode,
They can't take it anymore
Transport it into tears
Only to seep back inside.

My pain is raw
From all this time
I didn't do anything
About it.

My lungs are filled
With them,
And they won't let
Me breath.

The further away
They try to get
The more they press
On the soft sides
Of my breathing organs.

And I must find
Other ways,
To live without
My breath.

Every day it gets
Worse and worse
And I start to wonder
If it's all worth all
These tiny people in my chest.

They wonder around
Quite aimlessly
And every footstep
Hurts.

But I don't want them to go
I want them to stay
I want it to go
I want them to stay
I want them to never go away.

But my lungs
Will not be able
To hold on
Forever.

I feel like
He used to understand.
But understand that
He can never understand me fully.

I needed him,
At that moment, to understand.
But understood,
That he just couldn't.

And I would accept that
If I didn't know he could.

That time,
When the world caved in on me,
He understood perfectly,
Just from my heaving sobs
Over the phone.

I understand,
He cannot understand,
And therefore cannot be mad at him.

But I know
That he can,
And therefore crave his understanding.

This is what they call faith.

I understand,
He cannot understand,
But knowing he did,
Is what hurts the most.

Not that I doubted it,
I was told time
And time again;
It's mutual!
You're amazing
You're brilliant
We believe in you.
Of course;
It's mutual!
I'm suppose to know;
It's mutual!
But time
And time again,
My past
Get's the better
Of present Me.
Mutual Me.
It's mutual!
Of course;
It's mutual!
But I'll doubt
Time
And time again.

Tomorrow
I'll forget
You love me
As I love you.
Time
And time again,
Please tell me
It is mutual.

I'm mushing my food
Before eating it,
Drinking dry
Red wine,
And feeling
Distantly self destructive.

I had gotten irritated
And was beating myself up about it.

Looking at the world
Through the tangle
Of curls on my head
I feel like an animal
And there's no one
To contain me
But myself.

So I prefer to drown
In pillows and mattresses
Escaping the world
Via dreamlandTM.

Knowing
I'll beat myself up about it.
Preferring
To beat myself up later
Than beat others up now.

(It's not that I'm masochistic
Or else selfless
But I'll beat myself up
Either way.)

The construction
They labour on
Will become, one day
A building.

The earth
That they tend to
So religiously
Will be a blooming garden.

Whether herbs or flowers
Skyscrapers or cozy cottage
They will in the end
Have something to cherish.

And I
Take my journey
And I
See their work
And I
Look back and
Am not even able
To retrace
My own footsteps.

And they
Will be able
To dwell in their houses
And eat the fruits
Of their own labours.

And I
Will have memories
Which will
Gradually
Fade.

I am aware of that
And so
Frantically
I write my journeys down
Incomplete
Unwhole.

Because by the time I reach my destiny
My exquisite memory
Will too
Fail me.

People tell me
I'm pretty
But I look in the mirror
And I'm so ugly
And the mirror tells the truth
Cause
Essentially
It's me.

She explained all this
In the girls' bathroom
In such a nonchalant way
That I envied her.

I look in the mirror
And I can't say it lies
But the truth?
I can't see the truth.

People tell me
I'm pretty
But I look in the mirror
And I'm confused
Because I've always believed
In people
More than I believe
In myself.

Above my head
The sky is grey.
Before me,
On the offing,
A band of golden light,
With a few rays of sunshine,
Peeking through.
Behind me, a rainbow
Stretches out
In all of its translucent
Magnificence,
And to my left,
Loom the monsters.

Four silhouettes,
Beastly chimneys,
Pointing their *******
Up at the sky,
As if to say,
"We own you."
Smoke rises from them,
Like from the barrel of a gun
Dark against the golden light.
"Who have you shot lately,
Chimneys?"

Me.
They shot me.

And at that moment,
I hate them,
These ghastly cement creatures,
That steal my air.
I hate them,
For ruining the beauty of the day.
I hate them,
For talking away the pleasure
Of the smell of petrichor.

If Freud were to read this poem,
He'd smile at me and say,
Dear, this is what I call
Projective identification,
Before proceeding to touch my breast.
But he's right,
Of course he's right,
He's always right,
Because I, too,
Like the beasts,
Have a *******.