Visitor

There is no one in the street
but I see you there.
Standing
in your shorts and your black shoes.
I see you there;
a ghost.
A figment of some long lost time.
Some time, long ago.
A stained memory of the knives
that cut these scars into
my skin.

I see you.

Quietus

Inspired by this shaming and relentless weather.

A storm rumbles somewhere beyond the horizon,

somewhere far off. But my failures

and mistakes are much closer.

Upon me without mercy.

Unwavering and so clear.

If only I could be anyone but me.

Perhaps they'd never find me.

Over and over. Everytime I open my eyes.

Everytime I close them.

Hunting me.
These mistakes of mine.

If only I could be,
anyone but me.

Then this grass of mine would not be

brown with mud. And slick with dirty water.

It would be bright and green. Beautiful.

Birds would play and dig for grubs.

Under a blue sky and a blinding sun,

I wouldn't need to poison myself, just so

I could sleep.

I wouldn't need anything but who I was.

If only I could be,
anyone but me.

These bruises might not show.

I'm sure they wouldn't show.

They're everywhere now. On my knees and my hips.

My elbows, where you can see.

Not like the other side.

Where they're purple and bleeding and much worse.

This impotence of mine. It's presenting symptoms.

Manifesting physically.

Taking a toll. It's wearing me down.

I'm stumbling, falling, making a mess.

I've been doing it for a while.

I am The Pretender. Faking competence, intelligence,

ease.

I'm waiting to be someone else.

The storm, ever looming. It knows

who I really am.

It sees me, pretending, dressed in this tarnished skin.

I keep thinking it's closer and closer.

Is it though.

And when they are so close;
My failures, my mistakes.

When they're so close.

I can barely see anything else.

I don't want to be me now.

Don't want this storm to catch me.

I don't want this bruised body.

I don't want to pretend I can take this anymore.

This Quietus.