There is not
enough
morbid poetry
intheworld
to explain
the
void
i feel.
December 2011
6 posts
“
Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.
Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers
till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.
I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.
I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.
Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe
a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide
once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.
Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,
I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.
Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy
past pain,
keeping his heart
such company
as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall
into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and breasts
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.
“Depression is a rather rude house guest; Depression rarely calls ahead to see if it’s a good time, and depression never arrives alone. Depression brings its friends- Despair, Self-Injury, and suicide- wherever it goes, and it doesn’t check in advance to insure that extra beds are made up and waiting, for they will take YOUR bed and leave you lying on the floor you haven’t had the will to scrub in months. Depression doesn’t have it’s valet bring over an extra supply of tea and biscuits in anticipation of its arrival. No, Depression and its friends will barge right into your quiet, cozy home, spill your tea, smash your best teacups, devour all your favorite biscuits, and then vomit them up again because Depression has no appetite. You might think that, without an appetite, Depression and its friends would become weak, shrivel up, and die; you could then pass them out of your body much as you would an early-term miscarriage- something hardly noticed. You may experience some heavy cramping of the abdomen, or perhaps, in this case, the mind or the heart, but then you would see the blood flowing, the blood that serves to pass that which is to be expelled. You see the blood flowing to within an inch of your life, and you think, “Yes, oh god, yes! That which I do not want within me is being washed out, cleansed away, and soon I will belong to myself again!” But there is always something you are not supossed to see- something that gets in the way and dirties things up just a little. Actually, you are supossed to see it, but you’re not really supossed to SEE it. I’m talking, of course, about the remains. Blood and membrane. Tissue. Me. And not me. These are the remnants of Depression and its bedfellows, and the thing is that you have to check yourself, your underthings, your bed sheets, just to make sure they’ve gone. But that’s just it: You have to see them on their way out, and that’s just too much for some people. Some people take so long saying goodbye to depression and its friends that they get used to having them around. They have begun to enjoy cooking for their guests, secretly enjoying the spontaneous (or not so spontaneous) get-togethers, and have completely lost the desire to sleep in their own beds, the floor being quite as comfortable as they feel they deserve, which isn’t very much, as it turns out. So, then, when you feel the blood pouring out of you, and you begging to see things the things you are supposed to look for, you become frightened at being alone. You haven’t had a moment’s peace in months, but now you’re afraid to be alone. Ridiculous, isn’t it? If you don’t spend a Sunday night curled up in a ball and crying on the bathroom floor, what one earth will you do with it? It’s simply too daunting.”
—Emilie Autumn, The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls. (via sexonadeathbed)
"She speaks in the third person so she can forget that she's me."
When the lights go out and the underwear is rolled back on, when I lay here frustrated in the dark, my thoughts wander. Terrible places they go. Places I surely never would stray. I stroke the xylophone lines of thin-thick long-short scabs and scars down my thigh, carelessly whispering to the darkness in the corners, “Why haven’t I died? What could be my purpose here? My work is failed, done.” The darkness rarely answers. It simply stares with bright eyes and sharp teeth, chittering in tongues I have yet to learn. When it does answer, it leaves another scar.
Tonight would be a lovely night to die.
