I move my life to marching drums,
carving paths into my bare palms.
You showed me how to play apathy
I've never begged to a silent god more than
when I dreamed of empty tables
and riots in my wardrobe
(instead of lions or snow),
but then you glowed through the mist of my mind, and
thoughts of you were all I could find
in the cavernous space in my head-
for all I knew every nerve ending had left me
wired with an endless map of veins;
built, from the ground to the ceiling
with the yarn of life.
You cut through all my knots
now I'm a mess of frayed ends and
more pieces than you could ever imagine.
You threw me to the sea,
I was swallowed by the brackish shore-line
which coils itself into the monsters that hide
around every corner I turn.
Will you never learn that nothing you do
helps me to stand,
you just split my seams
and spill my contents onto the floor.
If you learned one thing from your mother
it was never to cry;
not over spilt milk, anyway.
My heart beats cracks into my ribs,
but my hands hold the sun
it shines through my fingers, scorching
each one of my nails
and curls me at the edges
the earth will never turn enough to
spin me from its surface, so
I guess I'll have to jump and
swim to the brim of the stars
while they bloom in the night sky,
a black sheet of pin-pricks
burning white against your charcoal surface.
sometimes, my pupils feel like frosted glass
but then I turn to your Good Book
and that lonely feeling swells
in my chest.
I feel more at home
when I'm floating somewhere
above your head or
maybe into happiness again
but I will never see
any more than what I've seen.
I will never skim the surface
or go anywhere I've never been.
I am stuck
living quietly, angry at myself for
falling into this rut.
and, to be quite frank
there's no one I'd like to thank more than you
(or the Goliaths you sent chasing my skirts)
Copyright © Bree Morton-Young