Skylark of the Bough

Skylark of the Bough 4h

My father's wrath,
I've come to learn,
is a scared, tentative thing.

When it rears it's ugly head once more
against better judgement
biting and snapping and prowling
with bared teeth and teary eyes
like a bad dog
it has it's tail tucked between it's legs
(I guess that's where I get it from).

Never before
do I fear so fiercely
than under my father's hand.
I raise my arms to shield from a strike
that will never come;
I shrink from his booming voice like a mutt to thunder;
I cower under sheets like I'm a kid again,
biting back tears because I know if he hears
it'll break his heart-
and what greater sin is there?

My heart is a fragile thing.
A twitching, bleeding bird held in my father's maw
because that's all either of us has ever known.
Roots tied and tangled
until I cannot discern myself from Him,
choking on the guilt he feeds me.
So
when I shuck my skin from my bones
like worn and ill-fitting clothes,
he clings to the tatters
and mourns the woman I will not grow up to be;
mourning the body still growing before him
(And I, being tied to him at the heartstrings
mourn myself too).

My dad and I have always had a weird relationship. I've always been more attached to him than my mother - though both relationships are toxic. I often joke with my dad that we share the same brain, for better or for worse. Although, that's probably not true considering how he acts, but eh

#father

Skylark of the Bough 4h

[i told you i was sick]

I want to create.

I want to weave my sorrows
into something that’s bearable to behold.

I want to be still-
like the stones my Nana mourns,
I want to rest beneath the dirt
(but I’m scared I’d be too restless
to lie peacefully).

Like the little world in my room,
(and the gaping maw of my bloodline)
I am ****** to feed the cycle that came before me
and rest.

My joints creak under the weight
of this petty mind.
My eyes bag under the weight
of these sleepless nights.
Yet still,
my hands ache for something just out of reach-
a longing for something more than I am now.

But words aren’t enough for this untouchable need.

#creativity #depression

Skylark of the Bough 4h

Self Destruction

I wish to
claw myself free
from my
wretched ribcage.

I wish to
rip my jaw
from its rusted sockets.
I wish to
tear my unholy eyes
from my divine face.
I wish to
yank my ****** vocal cords
from my all-too-pale neck.
I wish to
pull my weary innards
from the confounds
of my stomach.
I wish to
watch the blood
stain my carpal tunnel-ridden hands
like ink.
I wish to
lift my brain from my skull,
tear it apart,
smooth out the lines
like wrinkles in a shirt.
I wish to
scream every grievance
that comes to mind
without the guilt of an afterthought
to haunt.

But
I am all
too tired.

#sh

Skylark of the Bough 4h

Holy Roots

I often speak
of the holy:
the high and mighty
the hands that guide me-
because that stuff never leaves you
when your oldest memory
is writing stolen stories in the back pews
(next to you)
of the church that ****** me to Hell
just for living; for loving; for breathing.
And
I often speak
of the ink
under my skin-
how it beats
with the blood
of my veins
how it rots
the valleys of my brain
how it festers
in the edges of my eyes
(Besides,
I’ve always thought
leaky faucet eyes and flatlines
were better fitting for me anyway).
And with calligraphy nibs
for teeth
and nails-
the points beg
for the weight
of the word
and the worlds
I could make.
So don’t mind
the blushing lines
on my wrists
& stomach
& sides-
that’s just me scratching the surface.

And
I often speak of
the hell I faced
in the soft heaven of my bed,
and how you Holy Figures watched
and waited
with blind and prying eyes
for the answer to come to you
on a rusting silver platter.
And yet,
when I served the cause
to this wretched effect
bloodied and blessed as it was-
wrapped pretty and proper
in a note I wrote in deranged worry;
you wept,
painting me a monster
with the ink from
my own ****** letters.
So,
cast from above
like One before-
a glistening gold halo
turned to petty pyrite
(how fitting,
for a follower turned fool).

So,
I ask
your Heavens now:
when I came to you
with prayers
and pleads
heavy on my tired tongue
in the pews of your Holy House
made Hell,
did you ever think to hesitate
before you began
to point your jagged fingers
and other weapons of war
at the silent space
between the lines of my letters
(that weren’t even there)?
Or did you hate being wrong so much,
six years of ignorance
was the price
you were willing to pay?
Was it worth it,
my Holy Roots?

#religion #trauma

Skylark of the Bough 1d

4 in the Morning

I hate four o’clock in the morning.

When the sky barely starts choking up colors for the new day;
when the foxes preach their screeching sermons to the dew-strewn grass;
when I can’t bear to face the day
again
and
again
and
again.

I hate four o’clock in the morning
because it reminds me that nothing will be patient enough
for my weary bones to gather once more.
It reminds me that,
like all things,
time will march on-
and I am not yet brave enough
to follow its battle cry.

I hate four o’clock in the morning,
and I haven’t gotten enough sleep
because I have given everything
to something that will barely give me back half.

But that’s the way of things, no?
We give
and give
and give
for what?

I think I forgot.

I have a tendency to wake up at 4 o'clock in the morning for whatever reason, and the worst part is it takes me a really long time to fall back asleep, so I wake up at 4 in the morning and I can't do anything about it :((

#wakingup #mourning #depression

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