sst6 Marie take two

14 Jan

Disaster strikes. I’ve moved house and we haven’t had access to internet in two weeks. (Not cool.) Sponging off of next door’s to pop in a delayed draft – if it’s not too late 😦

I was created not from the rib of man
but from russet scrap paper
stained in rose breezes where my edges would waver
and lick against bare palms as he held me cautiously as an orb in his hand
during mildew moments when I watched the sky darken
until it was the colour of a bruise beneath the skin.
The doctors tell me to listen to that voice within
but all it ever does is sigh a thousand songs about you
and write intoxicated melodies of everything that you now do without me.
The kindling sparks of the moon no longer glisten
instead I read some of my old verses that tell me to listen
to the gentle rasp of my brazen lungs
until a question perches on the tip of my tongue.
Listen – are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?
How can you possibly forget how it feels to be alive?
Life is quilted nose dive, a sagacious sex drive,
a blow to the beehive and the desire to survive
with each footprint branding into to molten earth
a secret verse belonging only to you.
You carved your verses into me
when your fingertips danced in circles above my limbs
and across my skin
and I hate the way you kissed yourself into me through my scars.
And these days, I tear myself open just to check you haven’t stolen my heart
but my lungs are writhing ribbons to lay down your art.
I wear the poems you wrote me as a second skin,
blocking others out and blotting you in.
So I guess that writing one poem a day
is my subtle little of way of healing my stains, teaching me to climb,
and re-writing myself one poem at a time.

ughhh I don’t like this too much. Tonight I’ll be delving into pools of discourse to get me on the right track. I know where I’m going but it’s a slow, scrappy process…


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