its sick of me right
to be up into the depths of night
wanting a diagnosis, a pill to pop,
morning and night
fixing this rot
the rot is me, for that is what i am
i am broken, bruised yet on the outside
i am well.
well - in a good or satisfactory manner
except for tarnishing scars, carved into my back
faded into a splitting grey
'not my colour really darling' you say
in some grasp, clawing your paws skyward
imposter syndrome plagues daily
clinical trials never proved nor questioned
prognosis given minutely
yet it all feels
like shouting into the abyss
calling meaningless names
and waiting for an imaginary crystalline rope to haul you up
a trojan horse, is what you are
hauling conditions at your enemies, in some screaming fight
when inside, it is just a ruse, a cry for help.
oh how could i not help, they think
yet when the rope snaps, they never put their ear to the abyss
instead chastise the creator.
i guess i just liked the idea of you
holding your hand
holding my breath
i kinda still want to go to the movies though
maybe we can get bubble tea and bicker about toppings
maybe i can edge my hand over to yours, maybe.
i haven't told my friends.
you're a year 10.
i'm scared to meet your eyes.
you light up when you see me, and i'm scared.
i'm a teetering *** of water.
extinguishing a fire.
i'm scared of loving you
but i do admit
i like the idea of holding your hand
having lunch with your friends.
you know, i gave you advice
on another girl you liked
maybe i could wipe my memory and we could try again.
we could be friends.
you make me a better person
and it ain't no lie
i'm smiling through my teeth
its pretty ******* clear
i like me better when i'm with you
you read me like a book
and see through the walls i put up
and the **** i do
theres a side door
rusty blue handle
you can come through it
and in my mind we lie in some neverending dream of
cloudy grass and lemonade
where we can just be
cause i'm pretty scared
people like us aren't like us in front of
but i wish i didn't have to bite my lips
as fellows find me a suitor
to take me to a ball
where your eyes will be ingrained in mine
and after, i'll take you home
and we can just be
just you and me
will i find the courage
or will my knees merely meet yours
in some navy blue darkness
will your hand be holding mine
will i be fine
i wish i could tell you
how it is so hard to see your grey face and dark eyes
and know i can't do anything without telling the one true secret
a father and a daughter play snap on a whittled table
bandages around her spine
hot milk can't soothe the grey pain
but they play until she is tired
they venture upstairs,
she is carried, weightlessly, in his arms
he is careful not to shatter the breaking bones.
when she is seven they ask her where the grey came from
she says she got into a knife fight
for she has never been one for the truth
she was taught to lie explicitly
her father telling lies so vast
that they passed into truth
sometimes her mind would create things
crystal structures sitting in her hand
a one am run
so real she pocketed them
into her mind
and she forgot that with a hammer
they would shatter
she forgot so much, that they passed into truth
a crystal lodged in the heart of the fifth girl she has ever liked.
you sit triumphant on the throne
red velvet, up there, on concrete stairs
i am a piece of glass to you
see through, ready to crack
to break, grovel at your knees
do anything that you please
and you see it.
i feel like a spy. everything is shrouded in secrecy now.
everyone says hi to me but you
you give me a glance telling me
"you will need to do more to earn my time"
i give you high 5's
your hand is bigger than mine
the prints studding my back are purple night skies.
you see right through it.
you know i would jump over hot coals to get a day with you.
****, a day with you.
if that were a drug i'd be a ******.
the idea of you, seeping into my veins
giving me a high.
withdrawal from you has become my pain.
i try to find you.
the you that came with me on the bridges of brighton,
the you that bellowed the lyrics of fuzzy 9:40 pm songs
sung an octave lower.
but you see that i'm searching
so you hide the key.
on top of your red velvet throne
you autocratic beauty.
i wonder if you know what you are doing to me
bug under your thumb, i squirm and you laugh.
give me my high, my ruler, my lover, my queen.
don't worry about the withdrawal my muse.
compared to your shots through my glass,
a little fire would be welcome.
sometimes i wonder if
i could live two lives
one of them is going to have to
split off onto a far away road
so i must no longer wave at my reflection
or reflections should i say
as i am living many lives, as many people
walking on with their many days
in black jeans, tweed pants, sport shorts,
one of them bumps into another
and they all shatter.
so i have to complete the arduous task
of holding the rusty knife
and killing off the characters of my past
o what a beautiful sorrow