Novice

The meaning is there, but the words?

The words are clumsy, jumbled

but stuffed into eloquent costumes that serve to flower it all,

when what’s actually needed

is a good scrub and a scrawl that matches the hand.

Hangers

Our bodies are hangers

for our quirks,

a place to harbour our personalities

so they don’t get torn or damaged from being trampled on.

Our bodies are made of stone, of sponge,

wire, mesh, brick.

Malleable or solid,

they carry us

safe, guarded. Home.

Solidified

Ice becomes its glaze,

injected just under the surface to spread and fill every

hairline fracture.

Yet deep inside the clay is ragged, gripping on to every last piece

of soul that passes through it,

the desire for its insides to reflect its outer

hopelessly flawed from the outset.

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Exoskeleton

We are what we are, until

we learn what’s underneath

and what we’ve held back for so long.

Always paying attention to the ticks, but never the softer tocks.

Our outside skins will crack over time,

no matter how much moisturizer is applied

because they’re cocoons

waiting for the right moment

to let us stand on our own legs.

Set in

There are crystals in my heart. Each fractal

a different fiery star

that brightens every time its moment comes.

As I swim against the current,

submerged fully into the overwhelming waters

of reality, these bursts of light

are split into colours that hiss and spit their intensity

into every passion I have.

 

Shards

It’s all up in the air,

setting the places on an already cluttered chess board

and there’s no time to

 

let’s try it again,

how many times can a game

be taken back to the last save

before it

 

the mirror was kept so highly polished

no-one noticed

the hairline cracks until

 

a bright tartan dustpan collects it

and glues it back together.

Not seamlessly: the past happened,

it wasn’t reversed.

But now the mirror reflects exactly,

as it always yearned to.

 

Cold walls

You are there

the night your blanket

as the muffled sound of slumber

creeps in from under the door.

A door you’ve looked at for years.

Breathing you’ve heard for a lifetime.

Now both are strangers

even though you cannot make them speak why.

The Meaning Will Present Itself

Okay, okay

I’m here now, present.

No, not a present for you.

A present for me. For myself

to accept

and hold out to the world.

 

I have lowered my shield.

I am tired of raising it; my arms are weary.

I don’t want to be touched, or cuddled, or kissed –

until I do.

And if I do,

know that it is because you

are one of the few I love,

one of the few

I can suit up with

and ride beside into battle.

 

I will not stand beside anyone who seeks to leech me,

who leans on me

without ever letting me lean on them.

I favour balance,

I favour truth,

I favour trust.

 

No apologies will be made

if you seek to unmask me

and are devastated by the results.

 

I am here. I am present.

I am my truest self.

The Edge

The edge can be twisted,

it can be turned, rotated and up-ended,

spun around and spun well,

and yet

 

and yet

the face that you seek,

that ease of smile

and crinkle at the corner of their eyes

can still be on the furthest side.

 

But if you unfold the cube

instead of contorting it

the smiles and crinkles

will naturally rise.

Naming day

Is a name really a sound of yourself?

Is it a sound to swap around, change everyday

like putting on a clean top?

Can a stranger see you through your name?

Or only see your name,

bold, italic, underlined. A title.

A head and shoulders of letters, signatures,

a stamp of approval,

a certificate of achievement.

And what of money?

Is your name built of it?

Do people claw and maul,

trying to steal just a little piece?

Or is your name part of your skin,

a map of your life.

Connected, always.

You. Truly, simply, you?