An Untitled Poem January 15, 2018 ~ Rosie Bogumil Why is it that getting dressed Causes me so much distress? And dresses with pockets are rarer Than any form of self-instigated self-care? Dried blood on my wrists and on my thighs Like a burgundy tattoo that gives me a high. Not to look at, but to feel the pain; This refuge from hurt, is what keeps me sane. There’s real tattoos too – across my back And my chest and visceral in black, Are the quotes that keep me alive. Not just alive, but giving me something to strive For, aim for, save for. Adding art to my body Instead of sketching on paper, and photocopies, And dumping thoughts as words, and an ocean Of sadness. These waves of anti-promotion, Nihilistic claws that trap my skull under the Immense monstrosity that is her, That is me, that is pain, and darkness. Never-ending deprecation and harshness That dribbles from my mouth, floats, Unto the air, and becomes new quotes, For others to repeat, cockatiels, Whose sadness is my only appeal. This abhorrent self who can only try And try to be nothing else, lest I die. sharing is caringClick to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related