Thursday, 30 July 2015

buried in my skin




 I’m once again a white canvas. This summer only brought back my demons weeping, my knuckles drained in blood. Pressure point, they call it, the exact moment when you relapse, greet the coldness, reignite the past. Surrender.

 When I was little , I dreamt of knights in shiny armor, never in need to be rescued. Now I always imagine knights with broken swords , rust on their shredded armor, carrying their demons like corpses. They never tell you in fairytales about their lowered shoulders, the fear shaking in their veins, the nightmares keeping them awake at night, trembling along with their heartbeat.
 When I was little. I looked under my bed for monsters, never finding them in the pale darkness. Now I only have to look into myself. My ghosts, they’re immaterial. When I check for monsters beneath my sheets, I only find my scars glimmering, my failures hurting like bruises , my hands reaching for a home that’s not there.

 Here. Paint me with your colours. There’s a heart humming, lonely and afraid. Find the bullets buried in my skin, I haven’t been myself for years.

Tuesday, 7 July 2015

the thing about travelling

they never tell you that
after you come back home
you’re going to long for
days, even months,
for the open, endless road
and the constellations imprinted
under your eyelids
right before you fall asleep
in the back of the car ;

they never tell you that
you’ll feel homesick all your life
because you’ll crave for
adventure, castles, maps
and alternative realities.
you’ll never settle for a house
but for the unpredictability of trains
and the kindness of strangers ;

they never tell you about
the people you meet along the road
their hope, their mistery or their smile ;
no, that would be too painfull.
but you’ll find yourself
miles away, waking up in the middle of the night
and hoping that they are well.
( please, let them be okay. )

as a traveller
you’ll only feel safe
when you wander the streets
of a foreign city
searching for a new adventure
and never looking back.

Friday, 3 July 2015

hollow

why did you bring them in your chest, darling ?
hearts are way too fragile creatures
for you to make home for every stranger
in the depths of your ventricles ;
you should have dusted off their fingertips
the moment you realized they got in your pulse
but couldn’t quite resonate with
the soft thuds of your systoles
you should have known the mess they’ll make
when they would stretch between the valves
scratching the walls of your soul
screaming in your hollow being
and leaving you more dead than alive

what have you done, dear ?
do you know how many pills and unsent letters
it will take to forget their hands on your skin
their lips pressed against your collarbones ?


was it worth it ?