You hold the promise
of an evening sky,
colourful with
the obligatory spots
of darkness.
For reasons of
self-preservation
my curious mind
is not allowed
to solve yet another
intriguing puzzle.
Gone are the days
when I considered it
a lofty purpose
to fix problems
I did not create.
My winter heart has
accumulated too many
bruises to rise to
the bait of curing
another soul.
So many of your
carefully cultivated talents
seem to unfailingly aim
directly at my soft spots.
It is a rare gift,
this thoroughness
at uncovering all
the places where I amount
to too little.
Would that you take your
artistry somewhere else.
too many marks and bruises
on alabaster skin
branded by the touch of those
that still linger on your fingertips
afraid of the next tell-tale sign
to blow up what is left of her pride
running out of patience,
and from a place in hell
where secrecy is only
a figment of your imagination
iPhone pillow talks,
instagratification,
how long does your thrill last?
until you have emptied
your bottle of Bushmills?
until whoever’s make-up is smeared?
when reality is breathing down
your neck?
or rather
when you wake up alone, again…
only five hours to Paris
whispers of the Seine
balm for her soul
you know who is waiting for her
celui qui danse
au rhytme d’un cœur fragile
she took your car by the way
was it worth it?
His handwriting is recognisable
in the count of her shallow breath,
her measured,
minimalistic movements,
and the smouldering pit
that used to be her stomach.
The weight of insignificance
instiled into her,
is reflected in her
hunched shoulders,
and suits his delusions of grandeur,
and sense of entitlement.
I have stored my unshed tears
in my system, unacknowledged,
running them through my veins,
watering down my blood.
I’d rather drown in my own tears
before I let you see me cry.
I do not trust anyone with my frailty.
Hand over your darkness,
send me those clouds
that overshadow your smile
when you think no one is looking.
I will carry them for you,
shoulder their weight,
wearing them like a second skin.
Let their drabness
blend with the gloomy despair
I have born for
what seems like ages.
Indecisiveness leads nowhere,
he says using the motivational
intonation, the one that is
usually reserved for team meetings.
He shows a lack of understanding
for the complexity of doorways.
It’s easy to be confident when you
never opened a portal to hell,
it sounds a bit snappish, his
leadership voice does that to her
sometimes. She lacks the words
to explain that behind the prettiest
doors may lurk unseen horrors,
and a lot of locks do not
necessarily safeguard something precious.
At some point you have to make
a decision, but this time you won’t be alone,
he promises. Not much of an
assurance really, when she is still not
certain, if the door that lead her
to him, might be one she should
have left unopened.
She holds on to possible futures
in crystal balls,
and hangs dream catchers
to trap demons.
She always heals her bruises
in bubble baths,
and her screams are muffled
by loud music.
She holds her heart together
with safety pins,
and covers her scars
with coloured band-aids.
She dims a mean, harsh reality
with candle light,
and wards off cruelness
with chocolate.
She never fights back
for fear of the costs,
the curse of being born
with a gentle soul.
She leaks impatient magic
as she waves away your doubts
with an impetuous gesture
of her delicate hand,
her fast sun burning an additional
hole into your defences.
She sizzles with angry magic
as she punishes your resistance
by putting her hands
on those delicious hips,
her electrical storm travelling
down to the base of your spine.
She sparkles with wilful magic
as she manages to unhinge you
with one of her impish smiles,
her intensity sending your shy mind
on an outrageous adventure.
And your foolish heart
is giddy with excitement – again.
Canvas is patient
accepting red hot anger
in violent splashes,
enduring my blues
in teary streaks,
beholding black despair
in quivering brush strokes,
always silent, always forgiving
to the emotional turmoil
until it’s all but vanished
under new layers of outbursts.
A shadow has settled
across your heart,
so dark, I am afraid
it can not be erased.
Red hot anger
has eaten away at you,
crippling you in ways
I can not even fathom.
Your torment is real,
your pain sincere,
I just wish you would see
you are hurting yourself.
november child 