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scar Jun 2015
She
She takes the pills
As if they will relieve
This deep ache that pervades her whole being.

Inside she wills
Herself just to believe
That she's not feeling what she is seeing.

Inside it plays
On a screen in her head
As if on a loop, over and over.

Nothing betrays
How she's feeling so dead
And the lengths to which wretchedness drove her.
scar Jun 2015
sgs
it has been ages since i have felt
the grass beneath my feet.
a long time since i have stood, helplessly laughing,
as someone drenches me with a garden hose.
a long long time since someone broke an egg over my head
and used it as shampoo.
an even longer time since i watched my father fixing the seat of my little pink bicycle
and ran around the garden
with my curls bobbing in the wind.

relatively

it's been a short time since i left the school i called my home
a short time since i walked the corridors late at night when everyone had left
and early in the morning before they got there.
not long at all since i swung the hoover again and again over the floors
and sang castle on a cloud.
a short time has passed since i called alana by her surname
since she stood outside the classroom watching silently as i cleaned
and sang of hoping for a better day.
since she saw me walking down the corridor
bent over with the weight of all the things in my heart
and snapped at me lovingly "scarlett! head up!"
i still think of that
when life becomes tiring
when i walk down the street and find myself looking at the floor.
i think of sally and her own brand of concern,
of brigitte, nina, wendy
and the time they spent ensuring i was ok
even when i wouldn't let them
(especially when i wouldn't let them).

of mark and tracy, who wouldn't let me give up on myself
(my self)
even when i broke
even when i couldn't stand it anymore
mark would make snipping scissor motions with his fingers:
'do you want to be a hairdresser?'
tracy, making me smile
showing me how to understand
that i didn't have to apologise
for being
me.

of joe, who gave me the key to the little hut
and told me it wasn't alarmed
when he found me sitting outside the school door at 6am
for the fourth week running.
i went to the hut that evening
and opened the door
inside the cupboard at the back was a duvet and a pillow.

they made me understand kindness, these people
the ones i knew cared, even when i wouldn't really let them.
they taught me so much more than their lessons contained
held me up to the window and showed me the light of day
through the cracks.
i waited
bided my time
held on with them behind me
my silent guardians, watching, willing me collectively on.

i want to do them proud
they are what keeps me going
when i see them again
i feel how others must feel when they go home.

these people are more than my friends
more than my surrogate parents, even
they have been my saviours through the years
when i was too tired or too naive to save myself.

i have no words, really
to express the gratitude i feel towards them.
and yet somehow i must write something
even though it can't come anywhere close
to what i'd like
to say.

i guess really
that the only thing i can say to all of them
is
i love you all
and thank you
more than you will ever
ever know.
scar Jun 2015
Quelquefois
Je me réveille
Je chante, je ris
Mais cachée.

Quelquefois
Je te connais
Je pense, je lis
Mais cachée

Quelquefois
C’est comme tu fais
Partie de moi
Mais cachée

Et quelquefois
Je lis, je vais,
Je ris, je vis,
Tout cachée.
scar Jun 2015
Perforations on a notebook,
Variations on a theme
Accusations in her writing,
Bad sensations in her dream.

Keeping up her outer image,
Dressing down her deep turmoil
Showing up for work and home life,
Damping down the blood that boils.

Inventory of her lifetime
Crooked story, twisted prose
Imagery of her writing,
Stationary English rose.

Holding still for family portrait
Holding fast to moral code,
Trying still to uphold values,
Thinking faster than she knows.

Ever trying, always failing,
All the while succeeding, yet
Ever after, all her chances
Always bring her past regrets

To the surface ever higher
To the eyes that burn with tears -
To the past her back is turned now,
Face to the future's outstretched years.
scar Jun 2015
i don't want my skin to be baby soft
or smooth like a child's
i want it to crinkle at the edges
to wear the reminders
of every single time i've smiled

i don't want my hands to look young
untainted, perfectly just so
i want them to demonstrate
years of work, decades of holding
the hands of others
and cleaning up the messes of life
forging a better world

i don't want my body to be unblemished
unbroken and crater-free
i want it to be broken in places
to have scars and tiny stories
woven into its tapestry
marks that tell of the way it has stretched
and bent, and cracked open
to let the light of the world
all the way in

i don't want to look perfect
i want to look like i've lived.
scar Jun 2015
People crumble
People break
People cry
People ache
People live
People die
People hate
People lie
People smile
People smart
People hurt
Inside their heart
People love
People give
But do such people
Really live?
scar Jun 2015
If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to
If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry
If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks
And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky

If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching
That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed
If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation
And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around

Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little
And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent
As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood
Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament

If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating
If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed
If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination
Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.
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