No. 7.

Sleep is a reprieve,
from the agony of day.
The light hurts my eyes.

No 6.

Stared at my suitcase.
Clothes lay strewn across the floor.
The black dress will do.

Stained windows, dead saints.
The pews were lined like coffins.
I still can’t hear god.

Here it is again.
The bitter taste of failure.
Oh, so familiar.

“Make me beautiful”,
said my seven year old self.
She knew not a thing.

I dread growing old.
There will be nothing else left,
except memories.

Saturday morning.
Waking up over coffee.
These things never work.

I can’t seem to write.
Too many distractions here.
Endless, blaring screens.

Some days I don’t talk.
I prefer the solitude,
away from people.

They all talk too much.
Their ears are non-existent,
their eyes are sewn shut.

Taught myself to walk.
Taught myself to be human.
Eye contact, still hard.

Realised it’s Sunday.
The days are too similar.
Same burnt toast again.

Cracked ribcage, empty.
You went ahead and filled it,
with sawdust and cogs.

Left her corpse behind.
It was about time, darling.
Clockwork love? Shatter.

Skeleton bleached white.
The cherry blossoms scattered.
Flute notes in mourning.

October drizzle.
Have the morning off today.
Cleaned my iaito.

Had a dreamless sleep.
Devoid of the unconscious.
Woke up in a trance.

Nothing to be done.
So I ponder the cobwebs.
Left breakfast untouched.

We sat at the bar.
We hadn’t spoken in months.
He looked different.

Two old friends laughing.
We drowned ourselves in spiced rum.
He caressed my cheek.

Woke up with a start.
Oh my god, what have I done.
But he called me back.

Sat on his front porch,
drunk on wine and nicotine.
“Let’s watch the world burn”.

Ice queen turned smitten.
He melted my cold armor.
Wanted more of him.

I couldn’t say it.
The L word stuck in my throat.
Needed him to stay.

God fucking damn it.
I said the L word.
Make me disappear.

Crisp St Kilda breeze.
He was asleep beside me.
Two flanéurs in love.