---
Desire is a burial site,
Throughout my years I have learnt nothing I want I can have, and nothing I can have I want.
A never-ending cycle of a disgusting needing, like a hand in my gut twisting and pulling, cruelly,
savagely.
Like Prometheus each day I am being devoured alive by the consequences of my foolishness,
each night I starve and wait only for it all to repeat.
Only I ought to know how this longing burns like, no person ever has needed this bad in their life.
The nape of the neck of the one I want has never been this far away from my hungry, foul mouth.
The faster I run towards it the faster it disappears.
am a graveyard of desires and needs and wants, six feet deep into my chest, six feet under me.
---
To love you is to be both the knife and the flesh, the sacrificial lamb;
I am made up of needles and shower curtains,
shaved hairs caught up in my nightgown stinging my tender skin.
The wolf comes to my room every night and stays there until I fall asleep.
I am The Virgin Mary's impaled heart, looking at you, my own bloodshot eyes looking back at me,
there is no meaning behind anything you do or think.
. Fern words tumbling out of your mouth in an unorganized manner;
the cross on my neck feels a bit too heavy to carry.
I will split your stomach in half and crawl into it if that's what it takes.
I am gnawing at your thighs like it's my last day on Earth,
I am a hungry animal that hasn't seen another living being in forever.
Fisting my hands through your hair like I want to crack your skull open.
Hiding my face behind the wedding veil I find myself becoming the lonely wolf
with a hunting knife in its teeth, cutting its own meat apart.
To love you is to be the deer in the headlights, unmoving, paralysed, painting its own faith.
---
Everyone says I am cold to the touch when I feel nothing but flaming beneath the surface.
I am their robot lover, who plants hard hard kisses with my soft soft lips.
Anything my fingertips brush turns metal,
I am alien, alien in my own world, in my own house.
I wish to hold small small birds in my hands like
the prettiest of flowers and smile at them, I really am smiling.
My aluminium face doesn't show, but I am beyond ecstatic,
the wires under my skin crackling, cogs turning,
plastic heart beating like a hummingbird's wings in spring.
You, darling of flesh and bone, my bloody and messy being of innocence.
Come sit in water with me, wash my synthetic hair and pretend it's real.
I will paint your cheeks pale with my inhuman palm.
When I start sizzling, oh don't mind the noise.
Dig your blushed nails into my scalp, start taking me apart, limb by limb.
A continuous ticking, little red light flickering, don't mind it. Sit with me and watch me crumble, fawn.
It's the least you can do.
---
By the way, honeysuckle, I am sick, sick in a way you can't fix.
I kneel each night and pray until my knees start bleeding, like there's a gun at my head,
that's in the hands of a man with a beating heart and a sound mind.
My whole body is rotten, I can feel it, my skin withering away,
my bones crushed and grinded into nonexistence.
But this is my body and I live in it and there's nothing I can do to make this any better.
May the God that stands before me stay there. Don't move, my little dove, don't come near.
Don't wrap your slim fingers around my shoulders, don't point your doey eyes at me, it's all fine.
I made this hell for myself and I wish to live in it and there's nothing I can do to make this any better.
I sleep through the days and listen through the nights.
The silence is unbearable but I wish to live in it.
My room is black and I can't see the sweat dripping down my face,
I may not be even living right now and it's fine. It's all fine.
I stay in the burning house in the burning kitchen like it's alright, I can take the heat.
But it starts getting unbearable and for the first time I think I may just feel something.
But then it's pitch black again and I am alone in my room, on my knees, praying.
---
I don't remember the winters of my childhood;
Though the springs are warm and vivid,
like the shadows my hands make.
I think I want a burial bursting with color and flowers.
I want that little girl well fed and dressed,
she deserves the best.
A stuffie will do. Or a doll.
I don't want anyone to mourn her
I don't want to mourn
the body of a dead child
that was never really a child.
So take your candles, take your lilies
throw them in the river.
Hell, throw the body in it.
It's plagued either way,
it would just rot the ground
And the next season the vegetables would grow
with handprints on them.
And the farm men would dig them up,
look at them and go:
"Ain't that weird"
---
but before all things i am holy
and holy is my body,
the water i drink and the water i splash my hair with in the shower.
when the feet that have been taking me
around the whole world and beyond need a washing,
i don't ask anyone else to do it
i sit down and rinse them thoroughly,
i am my own god and martyr and my own traitor and my own lover.
---
flesh i am
the daughter of man the dirty child
the wilted flower
brithed by her mother from her mother
bloody and messy and sinful
i ought to be the one
to carry your body in the day of judgment
no one other
---
now the deer is standing by the altar
knowing it's about to be cut open and lovingly sacrificed
lifted of its curse by the caring hand of God
it waits
until the earth drums with a steady beating
it does not run
---
i think my soul is so scorching hot to the point where it feels cold
i am constantly bursting with flames from within,
oh holy fire illuminate my soft vessel
i want to be wholly devoured,
by the power of the divine
my outside is freezing yet my inside is nothing but bloody red,
oh holy fire, burn my veins
and eat my heart.
---
we've learnt to step on the floorboards
in a way so that they don't creak
but so you can clearly see our footprints in
the layer of dust covering them.
---
and soon the world will heal
but you will not
you will remain chained to the bottom of the ocean
by your sorrow and your past
by your rage, your rage that fills you till your
fingertips and far beyond,
it seeps out of you and onto the ground
and it keeps pouring and pouring
where does all this anger come from?
---
You don't know if you should call him your son
he's no boy anymore
but you lie next to him
he's fast asleep
and you're thinking
your knuckles white
there's blood on your hands
---
I can hear the neighbours dogs,
barking in the distance
they are so loud.
I am tired, i am tired
i can’t stand the piercing noise
of life
and laughter.
I wish to be buried somewhere quiet,
so my soul can rest eternally,
---
I look down
at my feet
what is that aching
somewhere near my left rib?
Sweat, dripping down my forehead,
is this what it feels like?
To be aware?