**tw's: body talk, nightmares, flashbacks, abuse, sh implied**
there is love & then there is me —
we are both opposing entities. even
in my dreams, i know no different. yet,
i can name constellations & you still
have long hair. he is still a child.
i have to get out of the car before —
i wake up, gasping.
my body does everything wrong
but not wrong enough &
the sky is a colour that does not have a name,
this angers me. i am ferocious,
at no-one but myself. i want to
be held, to be dropped & sometimes
picked up again. he is still a child.
i bruise easily & will them to fade away,
father would remind her to never hit the face.
so now i carve small crescents
into the cheek
bones that do not know how
to support the shape of my nose. these scratched petals have the
shading of a flowering garden at spring — all blues & greens & reds & pinks. i
bloom a goddamn rebellion
the only way i know how. to damage the coffin but not the deceased. to strike the matchbox but never let it release —
not because i don't want to but i simply can't, the limbs weakened by both use & disuse, i need sleep
that does not exhaust me. nobody
tells me that there is no car & that i am safe. i still feel like i am being driven out & out & out again. he is still a child & i cannot cope
with this wretched body no longer.
the heart is too fast, the rest too slow.
it should be ruined, i made it so.
but this is the punishment of being loved — to be weak & unbelieving & still have hope
less / of a feathered thing that perches on the soul.* more of a little child so desperate for a home.
*referencing 'hope is the thing with feathers' by emily dickinson
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body work
Poezie**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
