i'm a yearner by profession
wanting, requiring, praying and pleading,
all in silence, while acting nonchalant,
'cause it's the new language in the book of expression.
and who wrote it, i wonder?
where did the raw vulnerability go?
why hide in the shadows
while all you wish to sow
is seeds of needing—
a presence, someone to listen?
"you cursed it, didn't you?"
but the irony is, i did not.
i have never.
and perhaps people do admit
what they mean when they're angrier,
but what of those who simply don't know any other means?
anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter,
and suddenly it's all in the plain sight.
but i don't mean when i say it—
and it's on accident if you hear me.
don't call me a curse.
i do not hex.
i bleed in violet
with every scratch
that blooms on my skin,
birthed accidentally or meant to exist within.
hollowed out a perfect doll,
tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest.
nine, since it got harder.
was i made this way,
or did they carve me out the wrong mold?
called me cursed, she said so.
admitted saying, i thought so.
did i really? i wondered.
never meant to—was it in the moment,
or just mere anger?
i didn't, i promised.
but it hurt, if i'm being honest.
so once again, i went to what comforted.
picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose.
the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced.
i bled in violet, with no regret or fears.
the thunder resembled, like a biography almost.
it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole.
i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over.
it gathered, brought upon all that remained
from the very corners, every single ounce of wind.
and then it regained—some power, waited,
gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning,
and i bled—
against the skies, down the fields, through the streets,
over every single one—drenched poor souls,
unknown it was my thunder that they entertained.
blade-like sharp, violet like bruises,
the nights covered me in a blanket,
the mornings brought up more such poses.
silence sits
like a mannequin
in every corner.
voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal.
in the very center,
there's no one to guard
or stop them from becoming.
they play me symphonies—
the first says, congratulations on your undoing.
but what fault do i pay for?
is it being unforgivably myself?
perhaps i was meant to mask—
playing the same game like others.
bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise.
i cut out metaphors from my skin,
built them up, needed muscles—
so i raked within.
the best of them all—
my heart, put forward.
forgot the body won't function
without its dull weight.
it's been there, beating,
doing what it ought to do scientifically,
but in terms of being human,
it sits like it's been dead.
sometimes i hold my hand over my chest
just to feel—do i exist?
am i in the mind, do i continue to persist?
funny, the trick they say—
5 things you can see,
4 you can touch,
3 you can hear,
2 you can smell,
1 you can taste.
i've tried it all—
but that's my big mistake.
should have surrendered when i still had the time.
but it isn't anything new.
regrets are a constant part of life—
of most, actually. they all do.
perhaps they don't think
or look at life, having to wonder
what will come through.
when you ought to blame,
repeat what they did.
unfortunate as it is,
you'll have to face the same.
curse, i may not be,
but i've etched the words to my skin
with razor-sharp needles,
and they bleed in violet.
there's cuts made out of shards—
all the mirrors i've thrown,
broken through the walls.
i fill up a glass full of the bearings
for nothing but purpose:
to get close, to push far away,
gather the mess, save the day.
i bring it up,
have a taste.
it isn't sweet,
isn't bitter,
isn't even fake.
too real—
it smells like dark cocoa.
the right taste buds,
and suddenly i've got a violet tongue.
i shall close my eyes,
breathe in, as i hear it on loop:
call me anything you want.
what signifies is what comes true.
you're at fault.
i'm merely the one facing.
i bleed in velvet—but term it violet,
'cause that's the shade they slither
under my skin, all that i've heard,
crawling within—
like worms almost,
creepy, looking for the weakest spots.
and when they find, they reside, curl up
and take a bite—feels like a pinch,
like a syringe deep in my vein.
and they ****, they pull,
and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds,
so i bleed anyway.
it tastes like when pain meets with happy—
both fight for dominance.
comfort enters, so does wondering,
the second-thoughts, words and glances,
and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare.
electric, perhaps—
for i get seizures like shock.
the drink too heavy,
the feelings ****** all
the marrow of my life, made me fragile.
do not bother, the label reads.
cursed, i write over it.
and perhaps i've believed
and accepted.
if that is the case,
might as well make it look sacred.
so i offer you
the wine of the cursed—
violet shade, i could call it,
the violet suburban.
and this is me trying,
running out of fuel, of words to bleed.
so it's all been real, all this while—
and since i offered,
cursed as it might be,
i hope you like the drink.
tripped over, fell down, bled, fell asleep
i'm sleep deprived and also
how do i clean my slate?
cue to marcus baker
