just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —
where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.
invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.
was it ever enough?
yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.
humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.
this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.
will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?
have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.
i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.
can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?
they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.
maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.
speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —
and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.
will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?
will you see?
will you listen
to me?
