I’ve been dressing up your lies in misunderstanding silks.
Named myself dumb by omission, raised judging brows inside my skull.
That crystal palace you hide into shows a revolting victim I can no longer rescue.
You found your way around my weaknesses and made them kneel.
Call it friendship, it’s just fear.
May I trim your edges?
May I change your clothes, cut your hair?
Slip my books into your den
May I guide your hands around my scars?
Choose your favourite drink at a bar
May I change your speed in bed?
Pick up excuses, call them fair
May I’ve rushed to fall for love?
Tricked you, fought you, boxing gloves
May I ask for lourder moans?
Promise not to wear your bones.
You’ve ruined every good intention I gave birth to.
When I say I’ll miss you, only your ego blinds the lie.
Goodbye
Wrists missing watches,
Clocks stopped ticking.
Way past midnight &
I can’t stop cheating
Dreams from being dreamed.
That never ending spiral
I thought could be beaten.
Dragging. Drowning. Drifting.
Meet auld white current,
Vanished lies laid against
D’s crumbled Burren.
Be.
Be.
Be.
Did I loved thy?
Keep drawing smoke tales
over your chest pain
In suicidal attempts of turning your
Blackmailed heart into a fist.
Words? You mean this?
Oh boy! I hoped you knew better
For the sake of your own feathers
About to burn up in flames.
Picture: Musée du Louvre, Paris (2013)
I may have lied to myself
but now I see clear
’cause when I said ‘therapy’
you didn’t ask ‘depression’.
Just a ghostly pat in my back.
My guts to you were foreign,
you didn’t check my pulse.
I could’ve been a corpse by noon
you wouldn’t touch me until night.
But now I see clear.
“Here’s to you” by Ron Hicks
There was a cup in our hands every single time
we said goodbye those days
as if we had to hold on to something fragile
to stop ourselves from crashing against each other sins.
My whole body was an empty canvas
suddenly filled with colors naming
emotions I never learnt to locate.
I’ve never felt more real that we you saw me.
An unaware waitress placed crockery walls
between our faltering breaths and I saw you.
The toasts looked up begging me to eat them
and I surprised myself having lost my hunger.
I have never lost my hunger before.
You quite didn’t understand and
I could see your eyes getting worried but
how could I place my attention on food when
you were about to vanish from my life.
You were so beautiful.
I read every scar in you frowns,
every victory in your hands circled by
a golden promise, so I could paint you
behind my eyelids daydreaming about connection.
I took the bus back home and I had to wrap my fist
in shreds of my heart and pound it against my chest chanting:
My fault, my fault, my great fault.
Everyone I’ve talked to about you seem
to know more of my beatings than me.
As if I was as easy to read as a cosmo chic.
I’m on stage six of college delusion and
I understand my own writing no more.
How can everybody read me, but you and I?
I get offended when they dissect my so-called feelings
over a fake fatal operating table
because I do not recognize them.
How can I not recognize them?
Asking you the same would be wasting your time and mine.
Crystal clear requires no further polishing,
but I’m sick of their demolishing affirmations
that have been chasing me my whole life
and forced out of me no other answer than
NO!
I am JUST what I chose to be and not what you see.
You kill my complexity with colourful tags
when must of my clothes are black.
NO, I DO NOT LOVE HIM!
Because I should be able to peel off my skin
to the verge of vivid exposure when he fucks me.
But no. That doesn’t happen.
And I shy away and
I’m left trapped into a corner
where instead of two naked souls
I face the
rattling
judging
mirror.
Nights & Terrors – Derval Blake, 2013
As the vampire released from the stake
you’ll burst in flames above parisians roofs
and in the coldness of the Seine banks
you’ll breathe out the fool.
The black water will draw reflections erasing your errors
and you’ll understand Van Gogh and all his nights and terrors.
You’ll say Paris over and over and over again
For among the heart still remains
a certain clarity and stubborn hope.
Imogen Cunningham – The Unmade Bed, 1957
I’m sick of me having to dig the words out of you
As if your inner will never gave you a clue.
And all the cheap twist’d tricks I use are
A confirmation and
No more!
Of this fumbling sex parole which’s been
Dragging all my joy around.
Quick fix on the bloody stitches of this pretty little doll.
Mother, will I meet love?
Cause I’m tired of this men that do nothing but despise
Mum, will I be wise?
By the facts of my own arts I doubt
Who came first?
Lost – at any cost?
Found – northbound?
Mother you should have left me unmade
As this prison I call bed.
Some egos should buy a house for themselves
’cause they leave room for no one else.
Nebula Bruises 