that incur international shipping rates
while buying skirts
and three dollar shirts
from op shops down the street.
For all the times you’ve held my hand
I know, you have a strong grip, your spirit
never ceases to brighten, or radiate
warmth from your fingers, to mine
Of secrets, I have one worth hiding
One mark on pale skin
I can trace it from my forearm
lacing the edges of my mouth
the corners of my lips
Their words make small incisions,
cruelty sleeps between my bones
I trace invisible scars to feel
the rise the fall
i cannot pen my thoughts
if the silence echoes words
to vulgar for this century.
i dress today in blue
in alone in mind in space
i cannot be but half of me
if the truth will not will out.
nights spent in sadness, cocooned in blankets, hands clasped, close to your chest with shallow breaths, clinging to the edge of your rib cage, clawing at your throat
in and out, in and out again, your dry and evaporated breath, air to lungs, fingers shaking, lips trembling
skinny light edges through your windows and birds wake up before you do and you, you let your feet swing to the edge, maybe slowly at first, your heavy still, but not anchored
toes slip from the bed to the floor, sinking into carpet, into socks, into slippers, maybe boots, your move next, and you move
Hold me a little closer and drown out the lies. Their words are becoming truth, snakes under my skin.
I can no longer find the quiet spaces I used to retreat to. She has been taken from me. My secrets have been snatched, still untold, but not mine to tell anymore.
I feel like the dull ache in your legs after a Thursday night shift. Like the emptiness of being awake at 3 Am. All the time.
I can taste hostility in the back of my throat. Sour grapes, hard to bite into. I scrape my tongue with a tooth brush laden with paste as Mum always told me that was how you got rid of bad breath.
Her words rest on my tongue now.
The edging of lace on my grandmother’s table. My fingertips pull at the edges. Photographs, paintings, of those who do not want my eyes there are screaming at me. I am wasting away in my own way. On the inside I am dying, drying. A dried, feeble daisy.
There is no brightness in the hollow of now. The sound is screeching, moving to the beat of a thousand electro hits. It’s a dark tunnel. Most people think and fear loudly in 140 characters or less. I fear permanency.
If the cold rain could wash us away, down the sidewalk, to a drain. If we could run through the cobblestones and create irregular rectangle patterns through the cracks of less accepting times, well, maybe, that would be for the best. Quieter at least.