sometime before the last time,
or even a little more lost
in a dusty box
the time even before,
I wanted to tell you something, sweet.
When you press against my skin,
or hold me at length,
you are wearing, shredding,
tearing and smoothing my very
I wear myself upon my skin;
internals are external,
I don’t hide behind mirrors or imagery;
magic tricks, pops of champagne,
dazzling details or embellished,
Those who are privileged;
ungrateful and cursed with ignorance,
little awareness for the multiplied demons nesting
in blackened hearts,
sipping sour emotions and rancid feasts,
those are the people who hide what doesn’t need to be hidden.
Those who are privileged;
independent and cursed with anxiety,
pressure behind their eyelids at night
and a very heavy head to move and keep
the walls up, guarding against the terrors and the screams
and the glistening shadows, slick with grief and
self-pity, self-loathing and what people judge
as an infernal mental contagion,
but really is just an unfortunate, battle of imbalance and chemicals.
Awry and lost and deep trodden in a mind that never rests,
always misses a beat chasing other beats
and fearing the biggest monster in the fields called mistake.
Those are the people who wear it all like skin, coloured by bruises and patterned
with cuts, carvings,
soothing over the outside and deciding its already faulty,
can wear it on the outside because its already broken,
not really worth protecting
and don’t hide would could and would mostly be hidden.
this is me.
I’m rough, I know.
in your bed
when I’m scared of being alone with myself.
Depressed again and as I lose control,
realising I never really have an end
keep pounding and chipping at
every word I’ve ever though and every feeling
I’ve ever had to succumb to,
I’ve ever always had to feel,
sending for help and working on strength to rebuild,
shoots flares in a black blanket of sky;
lending your little demons the opportunity
to find you.
Jealousy is the most dangerous form of punishment for us.
These people that we are.
We crave respite, sweet.
Out of earth and mind and here and now,
out of beats and taps, clicks and repeats.
Out of straddled cycles and digging into ourselves with
our own fingernails.
But really, I can’t call you sweet.
You’re just the person I imagine
so I’m never caught alone with myself.
You’re just the person I want for myself,
and can’t reach towards, afraid and corrupt and broken to you.
Blacking out with my eyes open.
A blank space, a blank knot and a blank guess,
rolling over inside.
Short-term memory shot.
Feeling the weight
and the hatred of my omnipresent self,
mind disheveled, unraveled,
fighting a battle you can’t even see;
takes one to know one.
I deal with my pain,
no one else digging enough to find a spring,
land-locked and bone dry,
questioning the mirage I stumble through a desert for.
Questioning what real is,
something everyone can pick and grasp,
smoky cloud and bitter wind to me.
I try and see some reasons,
stumbling in the finding
of plain ground, nothing else.
Perpetually uninvited yet constant host,
addicted to everyone else’s company.
Asymptomatic to symptomatic,
mind the bickering beast,
same person, same bodysuit,
I’m locked inside with you,
yet watching you wreak your havoc,
vicious, bitter monologue ringing wall to wall,
grating and wailing and driving me broken
and twisted and pinned like your own art.
This is what I wanted to tell you,
When I noticed a break in the internal racket,
a clear view from my cell into yours
I realised nobody wants to hear about this abuse,
not even you;
avoid, ignore, pretend it isn’t real so you can sleep
alone in your cell just one more night, again.
I just want people to better understand what this is like.
Why I simply can’t explain it.
Why I can’t tell you.
Why you will run.
Now here’s your cue.
Stand up and
Walk out on me.