Warning--- This poem does talk about self harm and some things in it may be quite hard for some people to read, please keep this in mind when you read it.
Thank you!
- Irony xx
This is a dream again.
I rest my egg shell confidence on someone else's
house of cards and suddenly-
Wreckage.
Extravagant mixtures of reds and whites falling
submissively under my ignorant fragility,
as though my being is a tremor,
One even the most sturdy house couldn't withstand.
Catastrophe.
I can feel it,
Four blazing eyes staring consistently as though I held
something dreadful beneath this thin sheet
of feeling.
A hand gun, one pointed to my own chest,
A grenade, Lodged somewhere between these needle thin
ribs.
Myself- Maybe I am a bomb.
See, I constantly look for ways to hurt myself in actions
besides that of searching for truth.
I enjoy self-destruction, seeing something so hated,
just go, almost softly, into an abyss of silence.
The fires, blazing like a hatred scorching, blackening
goodness limb from limb.
My feelings are a vase of roses, decayed, quenched
from thirst.
You know, more often than not, I am a graveyard
people bury victims in.
A gravestone amongst this wasteland bares my
name, as though it longed for me, as though it
needed me.
Once, I pressed my thumb into a frying pan
rimmed with oil because I have always been
interested in how my skins texture may change
when placed under brutal pressure.
I called it mine. As though I took pride in it.
This body, one scared with remembrance of echoes
that shatter more of what I once considered stable.
I wonder, how close, is too close, when we talk about burning?
I still have the scar.
People like knowing such little solid details
like that, but it's hardly special to me.
I have many of them.
I am bound together by scar tissue that now
new, raw, childlike tender skin is more of a
surprise to me than anything else.
Do you. See?
I have a special way of swallowing myself so dizzy.
I am a reckless showcase of just how long
diseases like regret can last for.
I am the rough skin of a scab,
I just keep picking myself off until I disappear.
There's finality within these words, as though my
tongue wasn't an ice burg in the sea of my mouth.
As though my being isn't always an obstacle I am
forced to overcome.
YOU ARE READING
Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.
Poetry"I hope it gives you the same satisfaction as finishing a really good book, Or kissing someone, and not walk away feeling like they have taken something from you."
