i got excited by the cut on my finger
and the bruise on my thigh
(got one from making art
the other from chasing fun)
i've always loved that sort of thing
proof that i'm moving and creating

people will learn things about me
just by looking

i hope that they'll take an interest
flip through my pages
hope that my title and front page
can get them to read the rest of my story

i want you to ask me how i got
that bruise
that cut
that scar

i want so badly to tell a story

Some people
will have you believe
that damage can be beautiful,
and it's true
that you can find
the sunlight through the clouds.
But my trauma is not pretty.
It is an ugly bruise
that everyone thinks is okay
to poke at,
and watch the black and blue
attempt to change colours
when it heals.
There is no beauty
in crying alone at 3am,
spilling alcohol down your shirt
at a party you're only attending
to drown your issues in,
swallowing tiny little pills
to feel somewhat okay,
avoiding any comfort
because you feel you deserve less.
It is a lonely place to be,
stuck in a broken mind
with one-way windows.
I can romanticise my pain
as much as i want,
but it will always be
a toxic relationship
i have with myself.
And it is not beautiful.

that Gigantes face
so engulfed in clouds of euphoria
teeth melt and mould
against my delirious musings
that sweat of shame
and remoulded nausea
dissipating sand of
rapacious time bruisings