I feel alone
But not always
The sadistic, vile voices.
They keep me company.
Like any child raised in a church
You begin to get used to talking how they do.
Copying their words
Mimicking their actions
Wearing what they wear.
No, my voices don’t sing hymns.
They don’t wear Sunday’s best.
They don’t plaster on a friendly smile.
But they also don’t compare me to the other girls.
They don’t talk about me behind my back.
Or do they?
No, No. They don’t flaunt my secrets.
They wouldn’t.. Right?
Church people are different then voices.
I’m constantly cold.
My brain is always in overdrive.
My body will continue to twitch.
My eyes will forever water.
Yet you will forever keep me warm.
You will always keep me calm.
You will continue to distract me.
You will forever wipe away my tears.
My perfect solution has never been more clear.
My perfect solution,
It's 7 a.m. and I still haven't slept.
Maybe it was because of the game.
Or maybe it was because I can't sleep when my thoughts are screaming at me.
You told me to go to bed before 4. I wanted to. Believe me. I truly did.
But I couldn't. And I didn't.
I asked if you were mad.
You said no, instead you told me you were disappointed.
Call me what you want, but that shit hits the heart.
I'm sorry I didn't sleep. That pain in your voice kills me.
And I'm afraid of death.
That's why the voices do that.
They mimic your soothing voice and turn it into my worst nightmare.
I use you as a cleanser.
Instead, they use your blood to get the counter dirty.
I'm sorry I can't sleep.
I'm sorry I'm a disappointment.
I'm sorry I'm so bad with words that I can't just tell you what's wrong.
Because I'm afraid that if I do you'll leave me.
I'm afraid to be alone.
Because when I'm alone, I think.
When I think, they appear.
Because they want to prove that I'm not alone.
So instead they show me pretty pictures of you standing there.
With the skin on your arms peeled back.
And your eyes crying blood.
Your hands outstretched with dried blood crusted down to your elbow.
It's just my imagination, right?
They are just my imagination.
The worst part of my imagination.
Because I can't tell reality from my own world.
For me, both blur together.
I'm not sure what others see.
But I don't want them to see through my eyes.
Because these eyes never close.
Afterall, it's now 7:23 and I am still here, typing away. While you count sheep, I count pages of pathetic poems.
You have not read my story.
You don’t know my vocabulary.
You don’t know the boundaries of my spine.
And you sure as hell don’t know the story in these pages.
Don’t act like I am simply a definition.
That my worth is in one word.
I am an entire fucking book.
Don’t pretend I am a dictionary.
That I simply contain information.
I make you feel welcomed.
I can take you away
I can make you feel the pain that you’ve never felt.
I can make you feel the happiness you’ve once felt.
My story can take you away.
I am not simply a word.
Don’t try to describe me as it.
Because if you do;
Don’t forget who writes my story.
I can make you what I want in it.
The raft inside of me
the parting of the red sea.
This civil war is painting
once happy memories, sharp as a dagger.
The once joyful voices now echo in disgust.
The broken skin, a horror-filled reminder.
My body is a battlefield.
These poetic lines are my arrows.
My thoughts are the cavalry.
The field of white daisies, disguised as roses.
Holiness to sinfulness,
virgin to blood.
I lost a sense of myself
in the silk of sadness,
sprawled on my bed
of lilies and night-long moans
in lingerie and stockings.
Come look for me.
This darkening heart of mine
desires one dulcet dream only—
to see you dauntless,
throwing your head back,
desperate and divine;
Come look for me.
And at last when you do,
Ah, my lying love,
like a longing prey for you
I will lament not
the loss of myself,
for I know well
with your lace-like touch
you will lift me
from this silk of sadness
and not only will I become
your little poet, no—
I will be ultimately pleased.
She reaches for a pumpkin smile and glass dancers swim to find treasure evening radiance falls from her hair and secret earrings are found on the street melts into ecstasy sex is redefined all the while breaking rules of tradition like fireworks explode and celebrate love like a satin sky.
© Matthew Goff
Inspired by Laura Kerr
I left my insecurities there for you
Bare and unfiltered
Yet you seem unmoved
Days and months go by
I was left to the nagging sensation of my mind
Maybe you didn't reply because I was too young
And made you have desires which frightened you
Maybe you thought I couldn't handle your darkness
Yet I will never let you know who you are because I have many suitors
And you don't get the satisfaction of knowing you actually mattered to me
I need to turn these days
into attractive dust
moments left abandoning
a selfish recreation
of secrets employing
their own role in
a landscape of desperate longing
like an angel whose inconsistent stability
will disappoint the
courts of categorical righteousness
tossing into the wind of verdicts
a rebel leaf that will
someday find its way
into the bedrooms of anxious jurors
showing once and for all
the impermanence of contentment
© Matthew Goff