**tw's: death, sh implied, nightmares & terrors, ed behaviour implied**
the promises were always too intense &
oh, my love, i am learning
that this is as good as it gets
for us & sometimes
i'm okay with that. sometimes closing my eyes does make it easier to forget—
scattered cracks of eye ducts, the ripeness
of tear-stained skin, i
strangle-cough into red migraines, i
paint identical pictures,
but they are never the same, i
shift into something else to keep up at night, i
try out rigor mortis, a body pulled tight.
it does suit me, right?
sometimes
i wake up & don't know where i am, my
own body is alien to me. i don't remember
having limbs these slender, & now
i am rendered
into an easy catch—so easy that
i am my own bloodhound—
there are times where i rip myself apart, chewing on
some stumped joint. i can't swallow & the scent lingers. i
grow back but don't really grow up. always a regeneration
i don't recall
knowing how to howl, but this fits to perfection & i
wake up & it is still
okay.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**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...
