#mutilated
If I should be melted down
You shall forever be what cools me.
If I should ever be completely mutilated
you are what mends me.
throughout the amount of time that I've pieced myself together
tore myself down,
then back up
around, through the loops, under the bridges,
I've grown tired of trying to figure out where I go.
I want you to tell me.
I, flimsy wax, will mold as you wish,
I, roadkill, will be the source of necromancy,
if you shall wish it.
I'm tired of faking as if I know what I am,
I KNOW NOTHING
except.
that I want to be as you want me to be.
So if I were to be bloodied and bruised
I'll allow you to be the reason, or if you'd rather
you can be justice.
If I should be sad,
you will always be my smile.
because I constantly make this
choice, apparently,
of loving you.
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
you little shattered thing, have
you lost your pieces again?
are you still
seeking comfort
from someone's
apathetic hands?
allowing yourself to cave in
to their abysmal demands?
you stupid little thing you
disappear more every day
even your reflection dissipates
cause it can't bare to see your face
you human-turned-monster
have you forgotten how to live?
didn't anyone teach you how to give
parts of yourself to the others?
you ******* idiot
why can't you remember the past?
do you just choose to forget?
and why do you lie
about your quiet laments?
are you blissfully ignorant
or are you consumed by regret?
your sweet shy soul
where did it go?
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
I am afraid
(Of the future I’ve made)
For the boy
(Treating his body like a toy)
Who will slowly remove his shirt
(Unable to find the shadows in which he lurks)
And show her his scars
(That scatter across his whole being like stars)
His aches and pains
(The results of what drives him insane)
Bumps and rough patches
(From stabs and all of the scratches)
Marks she will look at
(While he is poised in preparation for attack)
The words he waits for
(What is wrong with you?!
What caused you to mutilate and gore?!)
The aching silence
(Leaving him to regret his self violence)
But maybe
(Because the future can’t be completely seen)
Maybe she won’t be afraid or hate the scars
(Because his body truly is marred)
Maybe she’ll tell him that she doesn’t mind
(Something i doubt, but is still possible to find)
That his scars are not something he should hide
(Terrifying, id just assume it was a lie)
That she wants to know the story behind every one
(Even though there are piles of marks, no, tons)
And she will take her hand and trace
(While he stands still, less afraid)
Every line, every dot
Every mutilation, every spot.
(While he’s waiting for the catch, the lesson he’s always been taught)
And she just stays there, looking at but not cursing him and his scars
And he thinks “maybe i can be loved, though I’m marred”
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
—Adam Zagajewski.
9/11/2016.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
I am burnt down to the wick
I am smothering in the ashes
of all the time lost waiting on you
I never thought I was afraid
of the dark, lost places
but I have to confess
this silence is unbearable
I am alone.
I can feel the weight of isolation
eating holes in my skin
I am ruined
mutilated by your indecision
Who will ever love me now?
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
wait for the thunder to hold its rumble, but watch for the lighting to illuminate the dark skies and the long tears in your auspicious eyes, yet forever holding a mutilated heart upon a tattered, white sleeve
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC