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.

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