My Left Hand

In the night, when the black has set up shop,
and the mist is thin across the far off fields,
I feel a worry.

A certain loss of control, a flurry of concern.
Like slick oil underfoot that threatens
to undo the purchase that I've gained in the day.

Pressure building behind me
and then a bloom of far too much.

Consumed, I am knocked to the ground,
overcome by that which I always anticipated,
feared,
but imagined would never manifest. Lies. Untruths.
It was all pretend.

None of it could ever touch me,
as long as it was in my head and not in myself.

My left hand, it wants to touch things.
It wants.
It wants to take and hurt and ruin.

My left hand throbs;
full of blood and twitching.
All those impure thoughts,
and unclean feelings.

Bottled into a single appendage.

Well, it makes for a numbing proposition. Cut it off.
But I might just bleed out.

My left hand.
It haunts me.

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.

Kill The Girls

My body lies;
open ashtray.
Vindicate yourself,
blow me away.

{25.10.06}

Home

{29.09.10)

Just when I think I've come to the bottom,
to the very edge of the earth.
Where there is no point in fighting
anymore.

It's now, that I realise
I have everything to lose.
And I feel sick.
For being ignorant
all the days that have passed,
until now.

Everything,
everyone.
That I love.
Everyone.
They are already here,
right next to me.

conception The

This is something I wrote a while ago. It seemed appropriate. For now. Perhaps my life is stuck on repeat.

Hope you like it.

02 October 2005

conception The

redness on my heels, goes so nicely

with The bruise on my hip.

The pulling at my hair

when i sleep, The scratching

at my skin

and noises that pinch my ears.

if you peeked through The window

you'd see my fingertips clawing

The sheets.

and then, would you look at me

with different eyes. would you

imagine The rise and fall of

my chest as

you remember the glimpses

and The night

flooding into your mind.

am i that unwholesome

that you would stare

at The clothes that

hide The shame.

if only you knew The

way The water envelopes

me when i bathe.

if you knew that when i

close my eyes, i'm not

sleeping. as you looked

through The bars of

The cage that i have

created. would you look at me

with different eyes.

would you feel The burn

that i do. like it burning

inside of me. you saw me crying

but you didn't want to look.

you heard me hurting but you

didnt want to listen. just

like The fire in your eyes

it burns in me. it's not

The end, but The....

White Rabbits

When I'm free, I'll run as far as I can.
I'll run as far as I have to. Until I don't feel it anymore.
Until I don't want it.
This crazy, down-the-bottom-of-a-dark-hole feeling.
Eating up my mental health.

Clawing at the walls. Maybe it's dirt.
Rocks and broken glass.

Sometimes down here I give up and
I can hear the silence. It's loud.
And I can feel that there isn't enough room.
It's the pressure.
Pushing down on me.
Taking up every inch of space.
Forcing me to want.
Wanting someone to force me.
Down and down.

And down.




I'd sell my soul to get out of here.
I'd let you hurt me.
I'd do what you need. What is demanded.


Down here the rain is cold and the earth is warm.
Brown soil that turns to mud.
It sticks like glue to my legs and hands.
I start to sink.


Down and down.
And down.

Toward the past that I long to forget.
I sink further to where there is less air.
To a place where a terrible version of myself exists.
A shameless girl.
She has no pride. Or dignity.
She begs for you to set her free.
And it's a lie.
Twisting your needs
to meet her own.

I'd burn her.
If only we were different, I'd burn her.
I'd set fire to clothes and hair and lies.


Look again.
It's only me down here.
In the mud. And rocks.
It's me. Crazy and clawing at these walls.
I have no dignity. No shame.
I have no air down here.

Come closer and set me free.
I'll sell my soul.
Just for now. I'd let you hurt me.

Then when I'm free, I'll run as far as I have to.
Until I don't want it anymore.