05/11/12

Syllables straining against a misogyny
so enthralled with minor details
that the flames struggle to lick
past the crease of the knee.

With individual droplets
rolling against the vinyl of a rainbow
and the silent wind ripples through
well maintained up-dos
and painstakingly ironed pant legs.

Sidelong glances
threatening a touch that never comes
into a submission of mania.
Heralding voices calling forth
a diversity of collecting trolls
and words which will never be spoken.

Jewelled rain
of salt and sadness
drips mercilessly into the abyss
of uncaring typhoons.

October.

A tumbler of smoked whiskey
Droplets bleeding down the glass
and clinking ice shatters the silence
dissecting the tension of absolution.

A smouldering cigarette hisses slowly to the butt
blue figures dancing against the backdrop of insanity
choking the silhouettes of darkness
and suffocating the seamless madness.

Justifying decisions with a sense of expectation
Allowing the tears to fall into the memories
Gurning while a shadow breathes against my neck
and strings of saliva drip against my skin.

Veins bubble in rage
Fear paralyses the soul
A twisting neck and screaming eyes
bruises that never quite fade.

Desperation seeks to destroy,
Devastation kills the joy
and yet, in a daylight doused in dreams.
Ice cubes bob and shatter the silence.

It's been almost a year.
Two short weeks and it'll have been a year. I feel no less broken, no less able to deal with the shit and yet.. "I've moved on."
I still find myself freaking out. I still cross the street when I feel threatened, I still wake up racked with nightmares and a fear which never seems to ease.

It's been almost a year and I still feel like the broken little girl I was turned into.

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Knifepoint.
Standing in a blank abyss knowing there is little or nothing that will stop the slicing turmoil from leaving gaping wounds in your psyche. Too scared to move, too wise to believe that I can stop the pain.No thrashing, no fighting, no words; it only makes it worse. Twitching fingers tightening a grip on a blade that I do not want to hold. An anger penetrating my mind so profusely that it leaves me wanting the burning sensation to embed deeper into my fingertips, to score my flesh with its icy flame and to make me its victim. To make me my own victim who means something.

Arson.
Caught in the middle of a swirling flame that I began. Falling rapidly into the embers of my own creation at  a break neck speed that is impossible to stop. Hugging my torso tightly to stop the flames from pouring out and protecting others from from the lick of my reality. Matches jump and spark in my hand, the flint calling to me to burn harder, to hit with more gusto and I collapse into a suspension of arguing minds.

Treason.
Being a prisoner between warring mindsets of control and ignorance. Not daring to let myself slip and yet allowing the pain to pour out on to anyone that is close enough to take it. Wanting to lock myself away and realising there is no way I can detach from everything that has kept me stable and someone who is something.


Crimes of my disease crawl up my throat and drown me in self made confusion at the smallest trigger. Throwing everything I once knew and once relied on into a swirling parody of repeating bullshit.

I've been here before. I know this path and how the land lays, and yet...

I am nothing.

Trapeze

A tent made of silk,
bright reds, blues and greens.
A rope fraying at the ends
fibres ripping and groaning.

Slow tiptoes and short glances;
One collective intake of breath.
A smooth sole dares to take the risk.

Icicles crawling and growing
sticking to the spaces in my spine.
A fiery rage gusting against my face
threatening to melt my skin.

Bracing,
Pushing,
Always always breathing.

Tears collect in the sand,
identifying the tremble
of a missing face in the crowd
and a lacklustre performance.

Stiff and unable to move,
slacking rope falls further
swinging to meet it's fate.

A smooth soul dares to take the fall.

Carving into my skin, every memory I have of you; each line representing something new to be heartbroken about losing. I can handle the pain, I can handle the sting of the tattoo, it's the new found sense of responsibility I have because of it. It's almost as if I have made a deal with you. I will no longer allow myself to fall as low as I did that year, if you are willing to help me. The weight of that promise is firmly resting on my shoulders and although I have every intention of keeping it, I can't help but feel the self doubt creep into my mind.

You were always so strong. Even on your death bed you made sure to hang on with us until Dermot came to take care of things. You fought so hard for so long, I am that much more proud to call you my Granda. I wish I could tell you these things; I wish I could thank you for helping me find my way in the world and for never judging me when I fucked up.

It's been almost a year and yet still, it feels as though my chest is tearing in two when I think of you. I miss you more and more - simple things. I miss pretending knowing what you were saying because you kept mumbling, or I miss the tv blasting loudly. I miss knowing that I always had somewhere I was welcome to be when I had nowhere else to go. I just miss you, and this, although you might think it is stupid and a waste of money, is my way of reminding myself that so long as I remember who I am, who you were, I will always find my way out of the shit life throws at me.

I will try my hardest to hold up my end of the deal, I just need you to do the same. I'm not sure I can do this alone.