"Lightning / Hunger" (a poem for you)

This small space has been blooming with poetry over the past days. I hope that you lovelies do not mind one more piece from me. It reflects my state of mind lately, I think. It has been a turbulent few weeks for me - overwhelming with anxiety & OCD symptoms - and so this piece takes rather a different tone from the softness of the works that I usually pen. Still, the more I read through it, the more I find myself falling in love with the knife-fury-savagery here.

If you would like to hear more about this piece - and understand the thought that went into every line, as well as themes woven from my own life - please do join our small Patreon community. I shall be sharing this magic with these fireflies tonight, and I would so love to have you here as well.

Enjoy this piece, dear friends. I hope your week has been beautiful so far.

 

Lightning / Hunger

I am bending a spine until a rabbit jumps out and stops speaking in full sentences. This, you tell me, is the first step to absolution. When I ask why you were late the other day, why you didn’t pick up the phone when I called, you tilt your head to relapse, say: cherry blood, strange flower, mouth so close to ruin. A rabbit is screaming along to these words. So it is night now and I am grasping for your hand which somehow is not a hand anymore. Instead, call it a retribution made of Prozac. (You know what this means only enough to laugh when I ask you about the words and the things so much worse than words that won’t stop crawling out of your throat.) What I’m trying to say is I just want to run without an underbelly to trip over and bleed. What I’m trying to say is love, death, and freedom mean nothing to a rabbit, but everything to a girl in the headlights with eyes of stare, broken rules, safe haven. Ready or not, here I come. When you say this, it should mean children’s game, not war story. There are flames softening my skin. It is dark and it is light and there is the corpse of a rabbit by the side of the road. I am memorising depravity, and this is the only way I can tell whether the numbness in my gut is poison, poetry, or a good hard punch. One day you finally finish with discovering the ways of strangulation. The next you wake up beside me and laugh the whole house on fire, sharper than all placebo effects. Say it like carnivore, death penalty, reddened hands, beast in heaven. This is no way of slit-throat-quiet: a sharp smile in the night like lightning or another failed suicide attempt. There are so many dead rabbits, and still I do not believe in God. Still I believe in you instead. Still I cannot tell if this will ever be enough for you to give me my hands back. Maybe one of these days I will know to stop waiting.