First poem of the New Year...
2004
Everything is falling apart
and I can’t face another year like this,
barely living like this.
I feel dead inside,
like I have swallowed myself whole,
sick and empty.
I am unwanted,
rejected all my hopes for the future:
I am a waste.
You said you would save me
but you have wrenched the drips from my veins,
kicked me out of bed.
And I see in the new year
left for dead.
untitled
she takes a shower
the water feels like his fingers
so hot it bruises
she takes a bath
there is a scum around the tub
it feels like soaking in her sins
she can’t get clean
she tends her sores
it is not the pain that hurts
she is scarred
she changes the sheets
stripping her skin
he lingers like cheap perfume
and she can’t sleep
she closes her eyes
and sees his face
he is forever inside
she bears his child like a wound
20 denier
These tights hide a multitude of sins:
shaving nicks,
insect bites,
mottled winter skin.
They help to keep her imperfections in.
Like the rest,
they are just a front:
a means to an end.
A trick, a snare
and hope that when the truth comes out
he won’t care.
Transparent.
The nylon crackles,
Sparks fly as she crosses the room.
Bipolar
Two sides of myself.
Two poles.
Two mistakes.
Imperfect halves of an imperfect whole.
it keeps me up at
night it wont let me
sleep everything running through
my head skipping
dancing darting behind
my eyes an old film
Black and white:
Shades of my double life.
My half-life.
There is no middle ground:
There are no shades of grey.
like floating flying riding
the waves im overcome tsunami and
drowning got so high and now
I’m falling.
I have descended to the seventh circle:
Hell is so cold it burns.
This must not be my eternity.
need to escape need to claw
my way out of my world of my
head feels like a paper tray caught
in an updraft feels like a hurricane feels like
turbulence turmoil
feels like crowding
Two sides of myself.
Two mysteries.
Two degrees of desperation.
Too many.
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