The Toolkit and First Aid Kit – A Poem

It seems that the more I draw,

the more I sketch the sensations

that arise from riding this emotional rollercoaster,

the more I realise that hands and faces,

cannot heal me anymore than my attempts

to disfigure the same hands and faces.

Self-destruction presents itself in these sketches,

and also in starvation, compensation, self-deprecation.

It is not a simple case of eat, or smile, or stop –

these have never been felt centrally at my core.

These are not things that can simply be enacted,

but rather must be relearned, as a new skill,

new additions to the toolkit beside my first aid kit.

Sketches are plasters that cannot heal my wounds,

but only cover them, protect them,

and just momentarily.

Until the next time I pick up a pencil,

or a blade, or step onto the scales,

and fall into the abyss sideways of the rollercoaster.

These Are Not Flotsam and Jetsam Thoughts – A Poem

These are not flotsam and jetsam thoughts,

they do not ebb and flow,

they are as constant as the stars and the universe,

expanding and contracting like the breath.

Tides cannot be turned off, and neither can the tsunami

of negativity that swamps me surreptitiously.

Caress me Death, I welcome thee,

with open arms and a closed mind,

and deadened heart heavy and blackened

in the precipice of my chest.

Where are your bones, stupid girl?

Where are your bones

she cried.

Dare you laugh off these things I say?

You think they are in passing, but they ring true.

Take them as seriously as the sun,

for they burn just as strongly, and blister just as badly.

Blacken my soul, lest it be grey, static:

the unknown between tints and shades and colours.

Along the border is where I rest, the boundaries,

the invisible between love and hatred,

the numb and the empty – the Border Line.

Fill me with your kiss, tickle me with your scythe,

then take me away,

far away, beyond the separation anxiety

of the trio of selves I carry inside.

Do not go gentle? That saying is fucked.

There is no such thing as tomorrow;

only the continuity of flotsam,

and the fluidity of jetsam.

An Untitled Poem

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.

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Icarus and the Phoenix – A Poem

I am plummeting, an Icarus without sacred plumage,

nor the beauty of a soft dusting of undergrowth,

to break my fall.

Each time I rise, I am a phoenix,

but even phoenixes will finally die.

Being engulfed in agony, where I seek shelter,

and comfort, and safety,

and learn to decorate pain, like A.W. Toad suggests.

Each time only makes it harder to return. To sanity.

To distorted sanctitude, yet perfectly perceived control.

While in the dark recesses of my mind, the gremlins call,

trembling as I quiver with anxiety,

highly strung, unlike an arrow,

in everything but form.

For I may appear thin, but she tells me I am fat.

I am tense, but not strong.

For this is a land of skin and bones,

where sticks and stones and everything breaks me,

and I do not belong.

That space between a venn diagram where only I exist.

Too fat for one circle, too thin for the other.

The thing about binaries, is eventually you’ll be shattered in two.

Still, I swallow saccharine words and bittersweet pills,

without knowing what purpose they serve.

Nil.