The biting touch of the glass saunters The curves of my skin. A macabre melody surges Through the hollows of my bones, As my body is made a puppet, Dancing to the discordant memories.
The webbing of the belt is lead Against my gossamer chest. Suspended in the air, My limbs dangle like a sacrifice To the shards below.
My vocal chords bleed With each ghoulish plea from my lips Until strong hands find my torso, And I rise Into the sickly light of day.
The cool air of the night is a pleasant foil To the heat of the brackish liquid Which caresses my cheeks. My mangled laugh mars the stillness As I remember the abyss That welcomed me before I nearly met the cold embrace With such a finality.
Two months ago I was involved in a nearly-fatal car accident. I would not be alive today if I had been driving a different car. For some time I've been meaning to write about my accident, and I am glad that I have finally found the courage to do so.
We used to take turns tearing down each other's defences like the last Christmas present or an exit in a building fire And when there was nothing useful about our bodies except how they fit against each other.
There are soldiers that don't deteriorate facing bombshells and fire-grenades but birthday parties and Saturday nights by the telly. We could be two of them
Remember how you got when you just needed something to hurt I was your push-pin doll. Like how children gouge the button-eyes and rip the stuffing out of their teddy bears (but still fall asleep holding them closer than their absentee parents)
The truth is once, I would have worn your bruises like a necklace.
These days, I offer my heart up on a platter and you don't even want to spit on it.
All I can do now is will my fingers to write poetry, too cowardly to even pick up the phone.