(spamming a few poems I saved on my phone for a few months before I go off on another 3-4 month leave.)
My body doesn't even feel like mines anymore.
I've strayed far from the madding crowd.
So distorted, so broken beyond repair.
The only thing holding my sorry self together are these cotton and silk threads
Winding tightly against me
my chest
my limbs,
my neck.
Digging its nails into my flesh, past the point of pleasure; threatening to break skin.
The burn of asphyxiation pushing me to the edge of unconsciousness.
A sensation of dismemberment creeping up in the back of my head, carefully assessing my options.
And I wonder sometimes when I look in the mirror
If they really understood what they called beautiful.
How does it look to you?
Was it hope or despair you see binding the cracks?
Maybe
it looked like art to you, the admirer
but what about the admired?
