Poetry

Splinters

The splinters of the branch slid into my fingers

as it snapped at the force of my hand as I tumbled into the tree.

Blood beaded down the bark and caught on the tip of a serrated leaf.

The red mirror showed

how little I’d changed

despite being shoved out of line, convinced my place was over here, not there.

My hair was ruffled, but still mine.

My clothes were covered in cobwebs and lichen, but still mine.

My eyes were wet and open, but still mine.

The blood dripped from the leaf and was instantly swallowed by the soil.

I stood up.

Poetry

She reaches forward now

Bitter, the pills slide down her throat

recalling the shock of months ago.

She thought she’d buried it, good and gone,

but they said she has to face it now.

She cannot keep running on a tape stuck on rewind.

Mind seeing what was, not what is.

She’s being broken down to atoms

so she can be rebuilt.

Possible, but outside of time.

Poetry

Latched

I walked away. I did.

I failed to see the strings still attached,

the cable wired to my head

to replay

the days during the days during the days.

The smell, the ichor from inside

clinging to me, polluting my thought process

so I cannot build the pathways forward.

I have to sever this connection,

wash away the dirt

so when I look in the mirror,

I see myself and not the paint.

Poetry

A Haunting

I see ghosts of footsteps all over my world,

my mind palace

is haunted by them

and the words spoken with every tread.

Stamped into my core

so I can never forget them.

 

The footsteps are all different sizes

and some voices I refuse to listen to.

But there is one I love to recall,

and it is the same one

which leaves new ghosts everyday

with words more energetic and meandering than the last.

 

Every so often, I will etch

a line it has spoken

into my breath cloud,

a reminder to you that what you say

will always stay with me.

Poetry

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.

Poetry

Tightrope walking

I take a cup of water and shake it up like dice on a gambling table,

throwing it out to watch it splash down on the invisible webs

plucking as my eyes, at my hands, at my will.

The droplets reveal them, more than I knew there were

(though I had suspicions), stretching far back into the past

where I thought it didn’t matter anymore.

But it seems that though the spiders have long since died,

their silk is as strong as it ever was, and has bound me

more tight than I can bear.

I have nothing that can cut them, so I must work to unravel them instead.

I don’t know how much time it will take. It doesn’t matter,

as long as I make sure to live along the way.

Poetry, Uncategorized

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.