poetry, prose, thoughts.
mentally unsound super anti-christ with hopes of becoming a spoken word performer.
[i wrote this whilst high, sad and on a complete self destruction path. every thing that I talk about in this poem fabricated to nothing other than a one night stand, and I’m grateful for that - the dude has since this become a complete twerp.]
it’s almost dawn as we sit here, lit by the glow of streetlights that blink occasionally as moths fly, hopefully, into the light.
we rest on concrete steps, the pathway to god’s house.
it’s safe here. I don’t want it to be, but it is.
and I don’t want to kiss you, yet I do.
I can feel the barriers that I built slowly collapsing. I don’t want this.
but I do.
and I can’t stop my optimism that this will be fine. that we’ll wake in the morning without regret and share unlimited truths.
we won’t, but I want us to.
and I think you want that too.
or at least I hope you do.
you’re like the others, true to form.
and yet I walk, feigning naïvety and innocence.
and it happens.
how slowly you burn, yet certainly.
I breathe you in, toxic, then slowly exhale the air pushed from my lungs.
disposable, that’s how you see me.
a rare lucky night for you, seemingly without consequence.
but these things build up, my dear.
and soon the day will come, when I - filled with booze and blind courage - confront you and maybe you’ll be with the girl you’re fucking. how unlucky she is, I’ll think to myself.
because you’re scum.
a dog-end, extinguished and smudged into the ground with the heel of my boot.
awakening slowly in a tangled mess of naked flesh in the bed we made together,
built so freely on a matress constructed by open kindness and powder.
slide the windows to let in the streaming light of a bright sunday morning.
gather breakfast and enter our den once more.
we grew such closeness on that winters evening,
three young minds opened with the glitter of happiness.
comfortable, we sat together and i smoked as we discussed our feelings whilst detatched from them.
a numbing barricade engulfed us, such comfort and love and honesty.
i draw as the shadows rise and grip the curves around you both.
your beauty as warm as the blankets we shrouded around our bare bodies.
for this was our room and these were our nights.
high and hazy, this was our time.
your hands that once held me so safe were now clutching my throat. after a night of you filling yourself with poison, it’s effects now grasp you almost as hard as you push me. six months worth of bullshit spouting from your crooked mouth. pressure, preying on me as i needed you so.
your stability, intelligence and wit were soon revealed as a facade.
i confused feeling cared for with being controlled.
my image, my habits, my friends, my talents. tweaked by your scarred left hand.
i lie as a naive puppet, held on strings bound with your insecurities.
i trusted you with every aspect of my being and you dashed it.
for on that christmas morning, for a moment i saw you. i had looked for many hours on end before, but never truly seen.
how terrifying you were, gaunt and crazed.
your mannerisms, slighted by a strong air of pretension. your mysonginy and how you combed your hair.
suddenly i did not feel so safe.
after that you taunted me, with your calls and your threats.
but no more did i fall to my knees for you.
paint stripper splashes the insides of my brain allowing the walls to crumble and fade.
deep into a pile of discarded trust that stands taller than you.
the remnants of my rationality, gone, gone.
replaced with the jagged never ending circle of whatever this is.
i allow myself to be torn, used and wrung out after my purpose has been served.
the advice still dripping from my damp fibres,
your hands strain and squeeze until i am finished.
then i lie discarded.
my head cannot take this routine any longer and i wish for my own salvation.
ask how i am, i might need to disclose.
this needs to stop before all of my walls have been knocked down.
for these thoughts need confiding.
though i may be stained with the rust of experience,
to share it is to tarnish.
for you, i am bare.
drink in my honesty as well as my flesh.
i cannot lie now.
look me up and down and stare straight through me.
my stubborn legs refuse to calm.
i cannot lie now.
glance at the lumps of despair that dot my frame.
the same ones he used to bully and belittle.
observe the thin lines of self hatred, that he used to encourage.
i stand before you, a showpiece.
ready to be used and destroyed like before.
you reach a gentle hand towards me and i flinch.
your fingers circle mine and you wrap me in a shroud made from your kindness.
i cannot lie now and i wouldn’t want to.
I cannot promise you much, but as long as you speak I will listen.
if you write, I will read.
like many seasons passed, this will not last forever.
you will find your summer soon.
no more will you engrave yourself with the stress of petty days and sleepless nights.
though you may gain days, months, before you feel the clear crisp snap of spring; it is on its way.
the sun will rise for you.
and, my darling, the grass will be greener. the cobalt sky dotted with whisps of white will no longer be the limit.
go further, for you can reach higher.
beat this lead weight now before the consciousness of your mind fades out.
there is a winding path before you and it does not end here.
bide your time, wait.
I promise that this is not your forever.
please wait to see your forever after.
four zeroes strike; sixteen.
another month passed in good fortune.
i have not needed you in some time.
the crutch that lies where you once stood,
now stronger than a thousand steel elephants.
my reflection greets me, prouder than ever before.
i steal a moment to congratulate myself.
for four hundred and eighty five days is longer than the time i ever desired before.
i used to fall into scarlet canyons, rusted, deep, torn.
but now i do not fall.
these feet carry me to my own achievements.
four hundred and eighty five days, smiles the sky.
it’s dusty lilac clouds suggesting dawn.
the moon, a colossal ball of light. yet only a slither shines today.
and though many days have passed since the last,
i’m doing it.
on day four hundred and eighty five, i believed in life.
i pick and pick at flesh red raw,
searching for every scab and sore.
padding for skin that’s rough and tough,
my nails tear layers and it’s just enough.
comfort, pain, shining armor.
still the hands of a self harmer.
compulsive habits, through and through,
thumbs up to teeth that rip and chew.
perfect nails with shredded edges,
trying to stop with faded pledges.
distraction from self mutilation,
numerous amounts of medication.
but still these limbs seek to find a way to ease my state of mind.
unconscious picking, biting, blood.
no satisfaction for self destruction.