Loneliness feels so much like shame
like being capsized with an audience
of passing boats, eyes leering and
watching your body bounce up and down
in the current as they slowly drift
away. It is the way a reflection is
like a picked scab, forever pinked
and raw, a wound to fester, to invite
more sickness into its core. Loneliness
is like every tongue twist, every wrong
word catalogued and revisited like an
indictment, like carrying a dead animal
on your back, like punishment that keeps
blood moving in your veins, even after
you have bled them like a riverbed.
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You carved words on my back
deeper than any knife
in your house ever could.
And kissed them with
those lips of yours that
tasted of rich green apples.
You told me they would
prove to be souvenirs
of our everlasting love.
You were deceitful.
Your mouth oozed out lies like
honey through cracks of a broken jar.
You said you'd take me
on the greatest adventure of my life
then made me walk on thorns, barefoot.
You held my ice-cold hands
and promised to make them warm
but ended up rotting them instead.
I think my house is unwell.
There's new creaks when I climb the stairs, new clangs and groans when I shower, a new rattling in the pipes.
I think my house is sick.
The walls feel Wrong all of a sudden; they have give that they didn't before, and the paint is discoloured.
I think my house is dying.
The floors aren't safe anymore, and the stairs have fallen in. I had to leave through the window because I couldn't get to the front door, and I swear I could hear the house coughing as I left.
I think my house is lonely.
I'd been too busy to check on it, in the rush of moving, but now when I approach it's like I can feel it crying.
I think my house is angry.
The council deemed the house unsalvageable, condemned it to be destroyed, but the team they sent in last week disappeared.
I think my house is vengeful
We abandoned it, after it had been our home for decades, we let it fall into ruin. Maybe if I return, if I apologise, something will happen.
My house hates us
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when i was younger people used to tell me “you’re really going to love your red hair someday”—mostly unsolicited, because i never actually hated my hair, and i did have self-image issues but it was never about my hair, in fact that was the one thing i always received compliments on—people just see a redheaded little girl and decide they’ve got some words of wisdom to outsmart those bullies that are all making fun of me because im chubby and socially awkward, not so much the hair thing, but anyway.
as an adult i really do like having red hair. not because i find it beautiful. i was neutral about its beauty when i was a kid and i still am. i dont really want to be beautiful anyway, bc i dont want to be noticed and looked at and judged by my appearance, beautiful or otherwise. i dont consent to that. but because i exist as a woman people make that mental appraisal of me before they hear anything from me about it.
but as i was saying. being a redhead is nice because it has distinction. it’s not an unheard-of trait, but it's still a genetic rarity. it’s not unnatural but it is a little odd. that’s pretty much the way i feel about myself. i am not unnatural but i am a little odd. if i were in charge of the choice i’d be a redhead in the next life as well.
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2 am tastes green now
frothy & sickly
bones & flesh aching
spider in your nightmares
I wake up feeling ice cold, raw, untouched
but I love it
that day was overcast, I remember
so gorgeous & chaotic
like a butterfly drowning in milk
I could no longer see the world around me
just focused on the sound of your breathing,
your heart beating
fast & uncontrolled
cried my fake lashes off on the way home
gripping the seat, breaking 2 nails
dizzy & in love & I ate too much
just 2 feel, just 2 breathe
he reads me his poetry and I sink deeper into the door frame
into the drywall
into the concrete
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