Uncertain who is holding the other
but one of us forgotten, foraging through our home in desperation to remember
what we did not know so cannot name
nor assure this body it is safe.
Blessed are we whose bravery guards the doors and windows
long past signs of danger, so fierce in our defence
it greets each demon as a stranger,
sounding alarms to activate emergency procedures
when the threat is but a spectre
with unfinished business.
Feeble and listless, these spirits will float
amongst the source of their affliction and our sickness
until they find in us a friend.
You can yell at me till spring turns to summer
turned to leaves turning yellow
but still these demons shout louder.
Here arrives as a long winter path paved with ice,
falling facts shatter on impact
across my frozen feet. It’s snowing glass
and their light rays bend blind eyes to a different reality;
one convinced the past is all that’s left of me.
I pinch the sun between two fingers,
beg for the burning present,
just one beam to heat each muscle,
aching to move.
The science says these shaking nerves
will spur on acts on triumph, that this pen
can script a new response to terror, defreeze fear
and bring this body back from outer space
to home, but what will remain, besides bricks,
when ransacked is the only place I’ve known?
Steady rhythm, pounding feet
and rising heart beat, caught in a battle of wills
with a maze of mental hills to climb
but covered in a sweat that is finally mine, from my skin,
a body I can again feel alive in through the out breath
where you left, no, where I left you
to starve on the side of a deserted road
with nowhere to escape my precious sunlight
and waiting a lifetime to be rescued.
Now it’s your turn to go through hell,
hear the bells ringing as your time has come
and I am running,
running with power,
power running through my blood.
The results are in;
I have seen their Instagrams and painted frames
and we are nine tenths not the same.
It will take all the strength I don’t have
to lift this sadness
off this second-rate skin cage,
I could never measure up to win a single round.
So I will count my losses in pounds
and my doubts as all the demons
who never leave my side,
but still I shall smile like I am fine.
Drink this whisky like it is poison
because I have developed a thirst for oblivion,
drowning in the curse of my own antipathy.
The edge of a cliff is a beautiful place
but I misplace confidence in my footing,
forget the risk of mud slides,
the effect of tears on mossy rocks.
By now, the fall should not come as a shock
and the shore breaks waves
like I am sure to break bones.
Blown away are the foundations
of a love to come home to,
for who could ever soften the landing
of a heart demanding to spill its own blood.
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.