Tuesday, 25 August 2015

stained


When I think of what I leave behind, I always remember the bruises, the sleepless nights, the demons howling at midnight. The dolls , wide-eyed, with their insides showing from their open wounds, and the feeling of being exposed, like a revealed corpse at the morgue. Sheets of paper filled with dust, ink spilled like blood, spread around like bandages. I carved my throat with words when I couldn’t speak. Waiting, always waiting. The guitar, the chords, forgotten like a lost lover, and the empty silence between the walls. The smell of salt, salt in the tears, salt being poured on the wounds. Ribs like prison bars, sewn under the skin. I remember aching until I came undone,  until my chest was only gunpowder and sorrow. This is what I was left with after the fire.

 I want to forget, I want to forget dearly. I dream of my skin turning to steel, my ribs to ice banks, my heart hardened like a stone. I long for the coldness in my bones, hands that do not tremble. No more nightmares. I dream of a night when I can finally sleep. 

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