I hear it gurgling into the drain,
ink spilling from paper. Blood.
The paper so wetted it disintegrates.
But the idea is caught
in the pigment staining your hands.
Tag: recovery
Trauma
it’s a shadow in my brain
a lurking, creeping, whispering thing
that doesn’t shy from light
but swallows it
if I do nothing
if I do nothing
if I do nothing
it will block me in. block, block, block
if I step into it, let it feed off me
and find my blood is its poison
my pulse is its poison
my heart is its poison. beat, beat, beat
it will shrivel up
and become nothing more than a stamp-sized portrait
reminding me that it rules
no longer
a memo note
it happened, it happened
but still I can stride
Journeying
The train chugs by, rattling on the tracks
laid down by previous states of mind.
Past half-remembered dreams, a dozen nightmares
and rare wishes that just might have a chance to come true.
The passengers rise early, making their way
to the breakfast cart,
eager to see what’s on the menu:
a fresh glass of nostalgic tears,
a slice of bitter wisdom,
a bowl of aspirations
and a dusting of hope.
They tuck in, delighting
at the sky-blue pink of dawn outside.
Dream Recount
The light is bright,
but it has a condescending voice sometimes.
It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,
and when it goes on and on at me,
I’m just a little overwhelmed.
Then there’s the crash of shattering glass
as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.
A petty argument over my shoulder,
and no one’s answering the phone;
as I ring and ring,
I might as well be calling the moon.
I think I’d get a faster response.
Oh, but now here you are, my friend.
You’re taking my hand?
Why? – it’s okay.
It is, isn’t it?
Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.
You just one-upped the light.
Huh.
Thanks, buddy.
The Gnawing
I don’t know when it began,
this gnawing at the back of my mouth, bloodying my tongue
with words that spoke only
of how my body, the vessel of everything that is me,
was not good enough
for the rest of the world.
It haunted the silence after meals,
wriggling, worming its way deeper
until it lodged a solid nest
and grew so much that it took over my brain
with thoughts of
how many calories are in a slice
of bread,
that apple,
those deliciously rich cherry tarts.
It spurred my limbs to work overtime,
even when my muscles screamed
that they hadn’t had enough nutrition that day
to function at just a normal level.
I tired, unable to keep up
with its demands,
unable to know my own self.
But of course, the sleeping me
did not go unnoticed by the faces I knew.
They dragged the gnawing from me,
gave me ambrosia to wake me
and told me it was okay.
Yet they didn’t exorcise it completely.
It had made its mark,
and now lingers on eternally.
Fungi in the pool
I see your lips shaping to call out my name.
I’m already looking down. The pool
beneath my feet turns acid, acrid memories rising
to curl, choking, around my throat. They are monsters,
and I can no longer run. Give me
the alkaline words that I need to neutralise them,
turn them into harmless fungi
that one day will be plucked and fried
over a low heat ready
to be served up for breakfast,
where we sit together finally,
laughing and talking about things like we always should have done.
Dressing by the fire
The warmth around my shoulders,
soft as flames in the evening,
conceals the sting in my chest.
My jumper soft and safe is no longer,
now only the writhing buzz of bees
trying to make a hive from my emptiness.
But honey – I do not like the taste of it.
Treeshallow Musings 