Crying for help
Crying.
for help.
Watching myself bend in half.
turning palms to see static.
Screaming whisper, tied tongue, aphtha secret, soot heart;
Godless, but hellish,
summoning dark forces
from within my own temple.
Giving away the life I never asked for.
Writing whoever's will.
Sorrowful hands, crossing t's,
dotting i's, smudging ink,
elongating g's, drawing down
my putrid whatever;
Giving up;
Surrendering;
Getting knocked down,
blow after blow after blow after blow after blow after
punch after kick after bruise after lost teeth after clot;
Losing conscience.
Like falling asleep in silence, no one knows.
Bones to dust,
dust to ashes;
Skin to scales,
scales into thin paper:
and I'm still writing it down,
though my hands are ancient and sore and
i don't want to anymore.
I never wanted it.
Help me out, let these hands retire.
Roll them up in holy water-soaked bandage, bring on the thorny crown, cross my chest and heart, lower my eyelids and lay me to rest.
To Rest;
to embalm this chipped spine, to fill my lungs with salt water,
to unclench my thighs,
unbend my knees, and to kiss my bottom lip goodbye.

in my mind, there are places.
places like a pearly beach,
soft and wrinkly sand between my toes,
white crisp foam licking the edges of my eyes,
soothing sunlight kissing my cheeks and shoulders,
my skin burnt and salty like it’s edible.

in my mind, there are places.
places like the middle of a soft bed,
me and my love with limbs entwined,
syrupy kisses and slow blinking,
milky touches and soft sighs,
a cheeky warmth spreading through my insides
and cooling handprints on my burning sides.

in my mind, there are words.
and floating around them, there is longing.
longing for innocence, bright-eyed curiosity and ambition.
longing for days in which i am in love with the air entering my lungs
longing for a future in which my tears no longer taste bitter
longing for feelings which now are unfamiliar.


in my mind, i live a happy life.
i am not guilty and i do not cry like i am.
in my mind there are good things,
there are things to smile about.
in my mind, things work out
and my hinges do not squeak
in my mind, i am not disappointed upon blinking my eyes open in the morning
and i do not envy those whose don’t.

but only in my mind.

there's a knot in the middle of my spine -
a knot made with flaming fuchsia rope -
that i have never been able to untangle.

my fingers aren't able to reach it quite right;
no matter how much i rub or how far i arch my back against the mattress,
the knot remains as taut as a lifeline.

and i can't cut it loose also,
i don't leave no scars on my back for i have promised myself the blade's lips can kiss my wrist and my wrist only.

there have been people who have encountered me in this life to whom i have mentioned the knot.

a couple of people only nodded and avoided my troubled eyes.

some people have had the pleasure of fastening it even tighter.
experienced sailors with impressive tying skills,
that can secure an entire ship of agony and relentless torture to a worn and raw anchor as heavy as my body,
with the vessel of malicious fingernails and empty words.

most people have only soothed my aching back with gentle fingers;
caressed and patted the knot with a tight lip drawn upon the face
and pitied my sorrow with forbearing eyes.

no one has ever cared to untie the unforgiving knot.

no one has reached out to pull the burning end of the rope and set it loose.

no one has carelessly ripped out of me the sigh i have been guarding in the hollow of my throat for so long.

no one has set me free.

see how these soft worn cotton sheets rub against my cheek?
see how the flame of the candle doesn't falter anymore?
see how the cotton candy pink of your lips rewrite history?
see how your kisses pull me out of my slumber and set fire to my veins?

do you see it, baby?

see how my heart churns and softens when i think of your name?
see how your skin feels like velvet underneath my mouth?
see how this promise may chip but it will never break?
see how this slow beating heart drags itself across oceans of blood just to be able to call itself yours, and yours alone?

do you see it, baby?

see how every kink and curl of your hair allows me to sleep at ease?
see how when you say you love me the night sky echoes it back to you
because that's where i hide my love for you? i fill up infinity with it, so the stars can murmur it everlastingly into your heart.

do you see it?
i hope you see it.
i do it all for your eyes only.


(so when you bat your eyelashes my heart beats in sync with it)

i slept with scissors on my bed
just to see.
to wake up in a new cut.
just to see
if danger is a true concept
if a surprise is something real.

i did sleep with scissors on my bed
because i have a tendency to move around a lot;
just to see
if the blade would try to kiss my rib
to quiet me down;

just to see
if fire really burns;
just to see
if what runs inside my veins
hasn't disappeared yet.
what i saw
was that it is better to sleep with scissors
than to wake up by my own.

i want the feeling
the press and the weight and the grip and the fingernails;
the hair and the burn, the neck and the throat;
the gaze and the tears, the lips, the mouth, the spit
the tongue and the teeth (the fangs
and the bite);
the kiss and the lick, the grinding, the pushing and the
circles of the hips,
the fat of the thighs and the brush of the ankles;
i want the liquid and the hard, the sticky and the sore,
the pain and the sting and the ecstasy of the pleasure;
i want the eye rolls and the sighs and
the gasps and the moans and the screams and the whispers;
i want the banging of the bones and the rubbing of the skin,
the crashing of the waves, the rumble of the storm and the
hissing of the breeze.
i want to meld the two of us together until we become a thousand,
and to never cease sipping on this wine of heedless madness
that we blindly drown in.

i want you.
you,
it is you that i want.
i no longer crave pleasure of my own flesh,
or sweet snacks in the middle of the night
not even my tired eyes crave sleep.
my one most painful and ardent craving is for you.

and i long for the breaking waves of the sea
because they remind me i have bones
that are as fragile as the white foam against rocks.

i remind myself of the pulsing of the earth
because it reminds me of my beating heart
that is yet to begin the apocalypse of my soul.

i think about your hair
and how your curls tangle on my fingers
as if none of them want to let go of one another.

your hands,
which bring me such satisfaction
just by the thought of them
and what mess they could turn me into
if you simply let them stay by me
along with the rest of you
and what a beautiful mess i would be.