Sometimes the only pain I can carry is the one that burns, that draws blood, because beating myself up is the only bearable unbearable way I know to bruise. Shallow breaths don’t support screaming, starving turns dark thoughts lightweight and lightheaded means less space to care. Wait till you see my bones and how the hurt just falls off me when it has nothing to hang on to, wait till you hear my heart rupture and rush red through my ribcage like it was running for its life. Then watch how love pours out my arteries and leaves when it believes I’m better off empty. You touch this frozen, unfeeling skin but all this shrinking means I shall slip through your fingers. Taste me on the breeze, somewhere not here.
Direct the surgeon
to make the incision
side left, inbetween my ribs,
pausing to let the cut bleed.
I need something warm to feel on my skin at the end,
so let it trickle, leave its stain.
Insert the tube through to my chest cavity,
drain the fluid, and once I am coloured grey
then keep going
till this body fades away,
Donate my organs
to one who understands their value
better than I did,
who knows to love every breath these lungs take
and can tell each beat of our heart
it has always been good enough.
I wore a long-sleeved black dress;
chiffon, bow tied at the front
floating but heavy.
You said I looked nice today
and I wheedled out a ‘thank you’ with a side joke
of ‘don’t I always?’
Just keep it light hearted, don’t think about it.
Keira Knightley plays Colette,
a true story about a man’s power
and a woman’s fight to recover hers,
but you’re oblivious to its significance
and the meaning saunters past you.
I think the meaning sauntered past him too,
last time I wore this black dress at the cinema.
I don’t remember what we watched
but I can point you to our seats,
describe how he was sat on my right,
sweaty hand on my leg crossed away from him,
eyes baring down into my skin
and my red summer shoes,
where no amount of clicking those heels
would ever get me home.
when lips collide with my skin;
through will this exists.
Blotches of ink stained skin, tinted purple,
they deserve the warmth of my hands
attached to this cold heart.
Yours, thawed enough to form a scoop of promises
with chocolate chips still frozen enough to crunch if I was hungry,
still frozen enough to hold hope in hibernation.
It’s called a safe
for it holds something
not meant for you to take
but to a cracksman’s fingers
it’s just another code to break
as the handprints linger
in every crack about the place
did you know the DNA from
one dead skin cell contains
the genetic make up of the face
as it ripped out and replaced
all that was inside
becoming just a case
burdened with waste
as the safe
still looks like a safe
but isn’t safe
in the most fundamental ways.
(I don’t know how much
bodies go for these days
but I doubt your exchange rate
was worth more
than the price I paid.)
When even broken bones
is not considered worthy
neither for a charge
nor being found guilty,
when even without
Her words should be
if being an amputee
then you could see
She wasn’t privy
to the memo
from the CPS and jury
about what constitutes believable,
since giving a reliable account
takes a PHD,
and to what degree
She just takes up your precious time
is it as much
as he took Her body?