Poem from January, 2023
This has been sitting untouched in a laptop folder for 1.5 years, and (regrettably) deserves to see the light of day.
I want to write a novel,
but I have been left a war.
Not quite breathing,
I burn with the stories of a thousand battles.
I am but rot and spilled blood.
You fled.
I wept to your God, to feel something of you.
I apologised for crimes you committed,
crimes I endured,
expected warmth in return.
My fingers are still blue, and my ears still ring.
I died once in September, and I carried my body home.
I have died again, in January, and I despise you for it.
I can still smell my wounds, rot and spilled blood.
Maybe I’ve been dead for years.
I’ve bled and bruised and hurt,
I’ve wandered home with scratches and scars,
I’ve fallen and wept.
I have torn every possible God from my heart,
grieved boys who poisoned and consumed,
ached after words I could not reach, nor receive.
Whispered enough goodbyes to last a lifetime,
is that not enough?
I long to etch my name in your throat,
a muted reminder.
I long to bite, to wound.
The resentment is grotesque, but it is mine.
I will digest myself no longer, for you nor anyone.
The violence is shameful, but it is mine.
This is beautiful! I love the lines: "I have torn every possible God from my heart, grieved boys who poisoned and consumed." I feel it so viscerally. Love this and you <3
such a gorgeously raw portrayal of heartbreak. particularly love “the resentment is grotesque, but it is mine … the violence is shameful, but it is mine.” accepting the ugliest parts of our self is difficult to write about and even more difficult to do. absolutely stunning