Last one chosen

How ugly
Dark and discoloured
Unevenly spaced
Crumbling bits coating each line

The stares and the whispers and the wondering what could be wrong when everything seems right
That word, seems.
How deceiving
No one looks past what they see
No one questions out loud
No one remembers or is haunted by the sight of mutilated flesh

No one goes home
Not really home but an adequate term
And shudders in the emptiness of a mirror
How ugly
And finds an unblemished spot
And digs into the soft flesh

It’s okay if it scars
At least these were chosen

Safe glass boxes

You’ll shatter
A thousand times over
When your mother dies
When you question your morals, your sexuality,
When you fail to please someone
When you look at yourself in the mirror
You’ll break into shards dangerous mostly to yourself

I’ll fall apart several times a day
No real reason but you’ll find me on the floor
Spilled wine and crumbs of glass
Scattered empty boxes discarded when they move on

Please don’t step on me
In your rush to run away from the world and from yourself

I don’t want to hurt you
I don’t want you to hurt you.

Lie down beside me
Align your broken pieces with mine.
Let blood mix with wine
Your flesh with mine
And your mind into the abyss of this empty box

The sounds of aloneness

“What does it feel like, being lonely?”, he asked.

Deafening. The violent ricochet of my thoughts from the inside and the meaningless talk from those on the outside render my eardrums useless.

Empty. So empty
even if I scream, its echo won’t linger to temporarily fill the hollow space of my soul.

Frozen. All the words I have, had and would have had cemented in a cube of ice that only your mouth could melt.

There are crevasses in the cavern of my soul and my skull
Little spaces through which my whispers find you and
When they do, it’s not so lonely anymore.

Bones not flesh

It was the where you touched me.
Your fingers searched for meaning along the hardened ridges of my hips.
Probed between my ribs to find a way into my heart. You traced my collarbone, as if it would lead to a hidden part of me.

Your mouth would whisper “I love you”
All the while your hands said otherwise, knowing they couldn’t accept my flesh.