There once was a Queen who ruled a magical land.

She reigned with an iron fist on a dainty hand.

This Queen was much too mean with servants so humble

who kissed her feet while she only would grumble.

“I’ve had enough!” She said, her fists in the air,

her eyes of wicked flame, snakes in her hair!

What made this great Queen so wicked and bitter?

They all knew what made her skin shiver.

With looks of a tainted angel, this Queen was so mad.

There was no joy in her kingdom to be had.

T’was the doings of a man that made her this way

the Queen learned the hard way how evil they play.

How they twist, choke, slaughter and destroy a whole heart,

only after making art and breaking her apart.

So, in rage, this Queen commanded:

“Bring me the man who caused my pain!” She demanded.

As they brought him to her, she cackled with delight.

They all would witness an awful sight!

Everyone knew he’d wind up dead.

“The blade!” She screamed. “Now sever his head!”

And with that, the blade fell with a sudden: WHACK!

And with a satisfied grin, the Queen wore black.

I feel as though I’ve been entirely flushed out. It’s like my whole body has been turned inside out, rung out like an old cloth and my internal organs have set flight. At this time, they no longer belong to me nor do they reside in their original places. I've cookie-cut like pieces inside me now; empty. I’m walking round with hallow spaces where things should be inside my chest, my torso, and my pelvis. I’m told time is short on how long the body can survive without these crucial organs, but I’m hoping I’ll have enough time to sow up all my flaws and stich myself back into something worth being. Maybe, second time round, I can rebuild myself without all the things you hate so bad.

You love cradling the pain as it slowly enters you,
emitted as smooth love tonic.
But it’s the opposite.
It bubbles up from deep down.
It soaks up from your stomach,
curling from your core,
biting down on your insides.
You blink and breathe,
but even simple actions trigger such violent shakes.
You’re scared it’ll always be this way.
The eyes that stare back into yours want you no more than you want yourself.
Your words are lonely whispers, begging: Stay.

Somehow, I need to learn to strangle the insomniac,
self-inflected, narcissistic monster.
I feel you every ******* day in my fingers, in my bones,
under my skin, thudding hard against my veins.
You pour out so smooth in my words,
and through any **** pen in my shaking hand.

Do you think there’s any hope left in me?
Any innocence spared?
I’d count for the first, but the second’s a toughie.
I’m sick of seeing the same thing when I close my eyes,
and craving the same thing
between my sheets.

This train better stop soon,
or if it’s crashed somewhere-
somewhere deep,
deep down in a place we’d both dare not visit again-
do you wonder if the passengers survived,
and who will appear when the smoke clears?

And it’s just
crack.
It’s always this
crack sound.
You’re just one
crack
on my broken window.
And you’re cracking away at my feet.
Your cobble stone path is laid up one brick short.
The glass thins out and it’s once again
liquid paper
that stands between us,
a single strand of hope lacing around our fingertips.
The flame in our hearts outs fast by the rough waves that beat at the shore.
I’m sure
you’re just one breath away
from screaming:
“I’m sorry.”