These broken people

whose steps are stumbles,

whose words are either strained and unsure

or sharp as daggers,

they walk so close

their shoulders caress.

These broken people,

they hurt because they are hurting,

they hate because they feel unloved,

they dream because their existence is ******* than the **** filled sewers

that sit stagnantly under their feet

as they walk too close,

as their shoulders caress.

These broken people

with eyes so filled

they spill and spill

down their cheeks

onto their sheets,

they weep without making a sound.

These broken people who ask

Who am I?

They sit in despair

because their tiny brains can’t think up the ******* answer

to this cosmic question.

Who am I?

They wonder,

between the drags from their cigarette mountains.

Who am I?

The question is slurred

because of the spell of intoxication they have put themselves under.

Who am I?

They moan,

from the cold bed of a stranger.

This question continues to bounce around in their skulls

giving them incurable migraines

of the existential variety.

These broken people

we are among them

with tears shed

and mountains of cigarettes,

with pools of sorrow in our wake.

With scars on our shoulders,

scars to caress.

We are just people

and we are in love.

Their eyes, they follow

like faithful dogs

all starry and moonstruck

for the love of their master.

But there is no love

and even less faith

mirrored back

my way

when our eyes meet.

Their judgment runs deep

inside my veins

and I could honestly forgive their vanity

had they not wounded mine.

It’s winter, I know

but still I wonder

why does ice need to be broken

with old friends?

Is it me?

Or my choices?

I have a hundred voices

pulling me to my

breaking point

skin ripping

bones breaking

how long until I

snap?

The point is

I’m sorry

for whatever I have done

for whatever I may be doing.

I’m not ruining anyone’s life

but my own.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

for living my life

the way I want it to be lived.

hell bent

downward

on my knees

it adds up

do the math,

you had me at

goodbye

you know

and quoting

Sylvia Plath.

you had me

up against

the brick

you had me

in the snow,

you had me

long before we met

that night

ten years ago.

abandon ship

quite recklessly

abort me

mission miss,

falling down

together

alone

we’ve fallen

since that kiss.

impetuous

the winds have been

but silent was

the storm,

your eyes

not arms

would comfort me

would keep

my heartstrings

warm.

hell bent

was i

when wounds were

fresh

and hearts

still young and sore,

down on

our knees

with stifled pleas

we don’t need

anymore.

Quiet,
quiet,
quiet.
Eyes looking in every direction but me,
but the raw emotion on my sleeve.
The fear, perhaps,
that I am worthless.
Some god with a wasted gift,
I am no longer in your ranks,
I wasted it
                                         away.
I’m wasting
                                         away.
My cup was never full,
but you drank from it.
With sick, gluttonous gulps.
Gasping and gurgling my insides,
until your veins were pulsating
with the blood of two.
Overwhelming? Perhaps.
I wanted you so badly
to hold me together
to hold me up
to hold me down
to hold me in your sweet arms.
I loved myself, in you,
I did.
The kind that was infinite
and reached with hopeful fingertips
stretched out over eternity.
The kind that made me understand
the beauty
I wanted to be.

I could taste it then,
I could almost reach.
The purpose I served is unclear;
it is clear now that I am
                                        worthless
              ­                          in our eyes.

Not an explanation
nor a look of remorse,
no hidden smile
i could see.
We no longer care for the heights,
                                          for the taste,
                                          for me.
You climb on your own now
with others pushing you
upward.
They feed you
and once again you are
ravenous
for admiration.
                                           But not for me.

No, I need no nourishment,
it only makes me wobble.
I whimper inside
to the silent room,
it echoes from dusk ‘til dawn.
The fix, inhale and shoot.
Drugs and blood
they pump your heart and fire it
in wild directions.
You love it?
Who doesn’t?
An addiction we would all admit
to craving
one worth the
painful recovery.
                                              And I am a
                                               fix.
Momentary, but sweet.
The moments were sweet,
and still….

When nothing else
existed
but the threading of
two minds, connected.
The strange,
that was so impossible
so bittersweet
to us both.
I never felt such power;
a strong hit was all.
We devoured it so quickly
and the beauty we could almost reach
was
                                              gone.

In the dust forgotten now,
or that’s what I’d like to think.
                      Better to be forgotten
                      then noticed and
                                               not
                                               missed.

Father,

Did you never stop and think

when you used a woman

or many women

when you ******* them all

and fed them lies

or let them fall

for your disguise

and kept their strings

coiled tightly

to your fingers

and used your charm

to bewitch them into bed

did it never occur to you then

in your head

that one day I’d grow

and find men like you

because that’s what a girl

is supposed to do?

Did you never think to yourself

that one day I too

might get used

and abused

and lied to by men

and not only by

you?

Did you have any foresight

or did you really never think

that someday I too

would become a woman

and meet men like my father

and did it never occur to you

that each woman you broke

was another man’s daughter?

The shackles that chain me
Made of my own flesh and bone
Fingernails dig into my skin
Drawing blood
I’m alone
And there’s no chance that I could
Win
With that wavering tone
The only shackles that chain me
Are my own.

A woman lies sleeping in her bed,
Her hair is a halo
Her bedsheets caress her frame.
In this dreamlike state her skin is smooth,
Her mind is at rest.
It is almost as though she has never been touched by worry or fear,
Or life itself.
Apart from her relaxed brow she remains much like she is when awake.
She is
Silent.
Her ambitions are kept safely
In the sanctuary of her mind,
And her darkest desires can only be found in the darkest of hours
When she she is supposed to be asleep.
Unseen
Unknown.
Her angelic face hides her ravenous hunger
To feel as she knows she can
To be as she knows she is.
Only the faintest hint of colour in her cheeks can suggest
The passion within.
In her dreams she is dancing free,
While the city around her burns.
She is wild and naked
And loud
And hideous
And joyous all at once.
But from her face
This cannot be seen.
Even if the angel awoke and parted her lips,
Letting her secrets pour out
And rush through the winding streets
Down the sewers
And up to the heavens
She would
never
be
heard