EtherealMartyr

what they didn't tell me-- the amnesiac is 61.8% water & on watching the night close its eyes on you, I only know beauty; maybe Anne Sexton was on to something & for the woman shamed, arise and breathe. Seabones with taciturn eyes after we lost him: mermaid thirst for cruelest love. Your virginity is like an envelope, a lover's observations on post-it notes, cupping rice always, and always.

1:       sometime in the last hour, i've held a small knife to my chest where beneath scarred skin, ribs and lung my stubborn heart resides: between these pretty covers, my pathetic letters slump into the next like falling dominoes: these inky dates are running together with carelessly spent tears and melting wax. 2:       sometime in the last two months, i failed at living and i failed at dying and i found there is a different kind of thrill to slicing over veins with no intention of suicide and i realised there is nothing quite the same as the taste of isolation, of fake- bitter words when i finally understand i'm giving out the tru

i catch myself on the snags of maybes and happy seconds: i miss you more than words can say. as much as i longed for your hands around my neck to loosen just a little, in all honesty, i never really wanted you to let go so completely. you were the potent hope congealing in my eyes, as undeserved as it was, and then you were the barren death i cradled almost helplessly in my nail-bitten hands. i trap myself with perhaps-i-could-have and was-i- had-i-did-i- and tired, scribbled-over sentences wondering if you remember how much i love(d) you.

She swallows satisfaction; calories don't function.

22-02-2013 (on the back of a school form) it gets to a point when your wounds graduate from frantic scratches and time-consuming grazes to gaping skin flap screams. 25-02-2013 (on a scrap of blue-lined paper) my body needs a chance to heal. 26-02-2013 (on white paper with 'Wednesday, February-" printed on the back) it's hard to write when my words are choked with tears. 28-02-2013 (on a blood-stained tissue) there is no chance of recovery when all that lives within me is blood and an inescapable wish to escape. 2-03-2013 (on a page torn from my journal) i breathe the life of an addict. watch me wither. i need someone to witness thi

I drink morphine like peach tea; down 6 pills by morning just to keep my mind filled up with nothing. & I know I can go days without speaking a word but- I want a moon shy girl with wolves at her back, bite mark ankles & a bottle of writer’s tears tucked under one arm. I want to be end of the war kisses bruised into her hipbones; the epilogue written over her tiger-striped skin. With these wisteria limbs February cold, & these weak lungs exhaling coralline whispers, I’ve got a tongue for words but still have no idea how to love a universe girl.