Deck the halls with tears and memories:
of hands, clawing, grasping
at my trembling flesh;
of numbness, tumbling down,
unable to hang onto my
pounding heart;
of eyes, laughing
while inside I prayed
to a God that was too busy
to answer a child's cry,
prayed to disappear, shrink,
to rinse away fingerprints
on my soul.
Let us string up the lights,
and illuminate truths best
forgotten;
let me turn the mirror
that damns me daily
onto your souls;
let me see if my
innocence,
faith,
trust, or
security lie there
-- or did you pawn them
after robbing me blind?
Come, light a Yule log,
and perhaps I will
finally feel warmth and
peace on earth;
we can drink egg nog
spiced with red rum,
freshly squeezed from my
dirty flesh.
And I will stare you down,
break you, as you broke me
when
you
raped
me.
Happy New Year.
excuse me but could I have a moment
to digress
to explain,
to share the scars beneath
this framework of
conjured normalcy?
Some of them are recent,
swollen still from
life's blade
Others long past
yet still call my name
Some of them
I've strung together
a friendship bracelet
I exchanged with despair
for understanding
Others lie, haphazard
askew
Like my thoughts
which lie, lonely
d i s j o i n t e d
Yet to create
form and meaning
Pardon me,
but would you mind
if I took your hand in mine
and shared with you
a piece of me
few have seen
and even fewer
have understood?
Would you be put out
should I lay my insides
upon the platter
and let the reality
slap you
as pain has slapped me, its bitch to toy with
and play with
and destroy?
Would you like to see
the bruises
I hide beneath
this casual face,
the war-torn rags
beneath my department store guise?
Would you dare face
that I know more than I should
that I've seen more than you could
That the tenuous
silvered strands
of my existence
are merely string
without a kite
a puppeteer without a
marionette
a sonnet lacking a conceit?
I doubt it, for
you know nothing of me
you see even less
the battered butterfly beneath
my ribs
has been pressed in the pages
of time,
and it's smothering
But it's not dead.
Would you guess at the
hope
that I harbour within
That I will see myself as human,
not a festering boil of sin?
Would you hold me and
profess to know
the depths of my soul
while I've caught you
eyeing your watch
counting 'til you can
Escape?
Escape is a privilege
I've been denied; denied by myself
I would rather taste the
utter agony
than pretend I
don't claw prison walls
each day,
pounding on the locked door,
struggling with the demons
that play me
like a harp,
play my song
as the flames lick my feet,
a loyal dog
For this is me,
this is my soul
which slithers beneath
the cool rocks,
while the crisp blue
water
caresses the shore
in its loving embrace
But these precious tendrils
these desires,
these passions that have
aroused my spirit so,
fade into the mist
with your unspoken answer
I am too much
for you to take
I am the medicine
I am the truth
you cannot swallow,
nor deny
I can see I have taken up
your time,
spoken too earnestly,
too long
And I am just
the girl
who interrupted
I feel you here.
Your words running over my warm soft skin,
a gentle caress,
my curves yielding with a gentle sigh,
as you loosen my restraint
I feel your breath upon my skin,
whispering upon my breasts, my hips, my thighs
and I cloak myself in the sweetness,
in this delicious honey
This nectar is forbidden, but it slides over
my lips, slipping inside, kissing me deep
as I drink it in
And I know I should fear this wild abandon
But all I can do is pray for you
to fill my body with the sin.
Your lips glaze over my flesh and
my blood boils,
Passion, lust, a silky package
that snares me stronger with your every murmur,
with every minute cry that dares
betray your desires,
and I feel every muscle shiver
and shake
and
call your name, breathless,
the air too thick for me.
And so we lay, bodies entwined,
and I feel you here
and love you here
and want you here always.
And then
we hang up the phone.
When I was young,
my curious fingers would
cautiously
dip into wells of paint:
azure blue, emerald green
ruby red and tangerine dreams
I'd carefully, delicately
create a world of trees and
swirls,
insistent on perfection
My trees, slightly wilted,
the clouds silver-grey
a blood red sky
echoing my pain
I am not a child anymore.
But still I paint,
tracing curves on my warm, fresh canvas
Intricate swirls, and empty trees,
Silver grey brushes, that create
a well
to keep me at work
to keep me etching at this slate
The picture is different --
I now deal in the abstract
but my favourite colour
is still
blood-red