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—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.