a tempestuous storm
blows through
the hollows
of her eyes

whining on the wind
as if a wolf,
howling it's sorrow
in cries of loss.
bereft,
it calls
into
the blackened sky

between the gaps
in her fingers  
the dust consumes
her skin
to bone

where brittle
wedding bands
slip
from her fingers
into the sodden grass
full of
mourning dew

dropping like cymbals
clattering
upon uneven ground.

thundering gales
tear through her ribs
borne of heartbeats
that roar misery

her bones
excavated marrow
bleaches white
in the sun,
dries to dust
and gladly falls
to nothing

her sorrow leaks
into her veins.
while
unrequited love
bristles
impatiently
at her torment


that ebb and flow
wither and die
gives her
solace
in her isolation


an eternal grounding

as loves tempest
mindlessly
wreaks utter
sorrow.

she hears the
wolves cry
  and she is too empty
to reply

Anger held captive in my soul...
Welling up, hot heat, pressure.
Eardrums beat a new rythm...
fast, erratic, unpredictable.
I attempt my familiar waltz...
clumsy, stumbling, aimless feet.

Something that used to ground me,
now hurls me into vacancy.

I need to take dance lessons.

I just... I just want to sleep...
Anything for some rest
To relieve me of this weight
The guilt, the fear, the loss
Crippling. All of it.
I’ve been brought to my knees
Waiting for someone
Anyone
To end me

I lie awake at night
and list off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest.
All the little things I do
that become desperate behaviours
of my personality trying to fix itself.

Like collecting books and arranging them
in order across the shelf,
because the fantasy
of a world so different from mine
feels like a void I can fill my room with.

Like placing my physical sentimentalities
in a box at the bottom of my drawers,
so it feels like I have
a private place
to bury myself in and know
there is something good
still alive
somewhere.

Like sleeping with the curtains wide open,
because I like to
fall in love with the dark
from a safe distance,
and still imagine suffocating myself in it
at the same time.

I tell myself that
If I fill all the spaces
with enough distractions,
I can forget why I was sad in the first place.
I can convince myself
having the rest of the bottle of *****
will make me feel more alive
than I do sober.
I can convince myself
kissing a boy I don’t know
will make me feel like
I am worth being loved.
I can convince myself
my childhood no longer screams
in my ears
that my existence is nothing more
than a burden.

Until I’m lying in bed
listing off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest,
and I realise it’s not an ache
but a hole
that’s been bleeding forever.
And there’s not a patch
big enough to make it stop.