Battered, broken, bumps and bruises A cracked perfection...... Still burnt brighter than the sun, Was still as placid as the moon Despite all unknown unannounced disasters The dark night, barking dogs and howling owls She had a touch of the entire world, Even though filled with toxins and tars Also the reminisces and all those plastic memories Hid under cloths were maps to places, nobody knows... Were the scars on the skin, scars on the soul Scars on the outside, scars that bloomed from the within Finding ways from those dreamy eyes to that pointed chin Told stories of her existence; Some unheard, some unwritten and some totally unseen..
“life isn’t fair” is what they keep telling me. and they’re right. it’s a cruel joke. life gave you to me a thousand times with every intention of ripping you away. i kept trying to stitch us together, make us one. “no one can take you now.”
but the stitches ripped out causing a wound that required surgery
Nothing is ever over, Is it? Everything Leaves behind a shadow An imprint on your mind, soul Sometimes, Just the shadow hurts so bad Like a cut deep into your being You get lost in it Aching Hurting Unable to let go Of that which cast it Because now it's a part of you For better or worse
And yet again in an hour of listless isolation a past image limns a tear in the blank sheet of my heart; An unhealed memory aches to share a hidden wound's predicament. A lonely dream sleepwalks as a blindfolded desire looks on helplessly. Agony of a loss runs deep in my withering veins The blood feels dead by a vacuum of nothingness.
I reopened a wound last night Knowing I would bleed again, Knowing that scar tissue takes three times as long to heal Than a first-time wound does. I wanted to feel something again, Specifically your fingertips Brushing against my skin, Your hands wrapped around The curves of my hips And Your warm breath against my neck As you kiss me.
I know self-harm is frowned upon, But to share a moment with you again Was worth the pain.
We often walk away when we are wounded. You see it in the movies. A man is shot, bleeding, still trying to get away or get what he wants. He holds his wound, as the blood pours through his hands. He thinks no one will get away with this, no one will ever hurt me again. The wound creates this power instead of inflicting the fear that there is no chance to get what is wanted, but an adrenaline takes over. It surpasses the way the wound opens, the way the blood leaves, the way hurt conveys a message, it changes. Granting a boon of scar tissue to mend. Now take it.
I knew it wouldn't end in fire; We burned Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate In flames.
I found the scab, the source, Small and round and secret. Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges Nervously until the blood flows Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.
A tipping point we can't reverse out of, We're frozen on the event horizon, Empty like the air in February, The oxygen burned out from our explosion.
I am only left with regret and this Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked Too far north and lost the sun, Though clouds still part in the distance and wave Toward the open spaces With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.
I claw back to calm from Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell Me what to say in return - I am raw.
I stand at the edge of mercy, Abrupt in my humanity, Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.