Poetry

Black Cobwebs

You’re hurting.

I can see it as plain

as if you were holding up a sign to the world

letting them know

that being trodden on

and lied to – however well-intentioned – is not okay.

Except everyone, regardless of vision,

is blind to it.

It takes until the tears roll down

for them to understand

you can’t

keep trudging away everyday,

that care-free positive smile –

weighing several tonnes –

hiding your real thoughts.

Pretending, pretending, pretending

everything is fine.

No rest. No sleep. No insights.

It’s wounding you.

Slathering you in red;

not blood.

Anger. Pain. Sorrow.

And love.

Because you love,

because you claimed a degree of happiness

that gives the illusion you have distanced

yourself from the circle

and don’t want to be distracted,

there’s guilt.

Needless guilt.

Your choice was never to be left in the dark.

But I have shared the same

and understand why it’s there.

I hate it.

I hate how it wraps you in dark threads and cocoons you.

The only thing I can do

is hold your hand, drink your words

and let you lean on me.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Poetry

Patchwork

It’s said that every seven years,

our bodies change.

We shed who we were and take on new thread

to spin into a suit of current experiences

and timid goals.

 

We can’t lose our previous selves completely.

 

At a deep, stubborn level,

our essence never morphs.

It lies in wait

gathering parts it likes

and casting aside those it doesn’t,

so that eventually, when the time comes

to accept our truest nature,

we can be as comfortable in our own skin

as we were before the influence of others took hold.

 

We are a patchwork of our lives,

well worn in places,

freshly pressed in others

and often oddly put together.

 

But we are human.

We are flawed.

And that’s what makes us.

 

Poetry

Little ballerina doll

Toes against the box. Comfort lacking.

Weight on one pointe; gravity sucking me down.

My foot sinks into the floor. Smile. Be light.

High arches circle, support from the side.

I feel safe now, knowing I can lower myself.

Hop away. Run from the box.

Run, but never escape.

The box is attached. It demands to be risen on.

It owns me.

For the swans and fairies I’ve grown up watching,

it’s clear they own their box.

Why can’t I?

Poetry

Brunch.

In my eggcup is a blackened stone vaguely heart-shaped. If I touch it, beads of red rise to the surface to greet my skin. They retreat at the same time I do. The lady across the street hires out coffins. Thirty pounds a day, one hundred pounds fine if said coffins are accidentally buried. Uplift charge, you see. I tap the stone in my eggcup with a teaspoon. Charred pieces splinter off, revealing a soft, pink inner. I dig in.