24 | they/she

Creative Writing grad | Occasional poet

[damonalbarngirl]

oh.....

[poets-and-prose]

Closeness

I want to be held

by you, feel you close to me.

Fuck this damn distance.

[poets-and-prose]

Absence

I’m thinking of you, stomach doing somersaults, I wish you were here. 

[poets-and-prose]

Kintsugi Gold

I have been broken for so long,  shattered within and without. 

Panic attacks in playgrounds,  breakdowns in my bed.  That crawling fire on my skin,  inviting me to tear myself to shreds. 

Crushes on girls before any on boys.  Uncertainty as I face my reflection, my self is just static noise. 

Disconnect with my emotions, a numbness clouding my mind. Inability to show that I care,  no affection of any kind. 

But I will piece myself back together with gold. Kintsugi on my soul, rather than a pottery bowl. 

And my cracks will show with pride,  gleaming against plain flesh.  Day after day, I will survive this test. 

Until maybe, one day, I’ll be more gold than clay. 

[poets-and-prose]

Bloody

I walk home alone, in the dark.  Blood smears the doorknob and trails across the floor. 

I don’t dwell on the kill. Changing in the dark, so I can rush home to you, who knows not what I am. 

I still walk alone to our home, a light in the dark.  You wait for me by the door and cleanse me of my doings.

I have you beside me in the dead of night, the dark.  Blood on both our souls, how corrupting love is. 

[poets-and-prose]

I Can’t Do This Anymore

You tell me you’ve cut yourself. You tell me you want to die.  You make jokes that are just a lie. 

You tell me everyone hates you. You tell me about the mistreatment. You talk non-stop about men you’ve never met. 

You ask for help and share your woes. Yeah, I know just how this goes. 

I want to do all I can to keep you in this mortal land. But my battery is draining and my mind is fading.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  This exhaustion is a selfish sin. 

You’re not a burden, that’s the last thing I intend to mean, but it’s getting so hard to intervene. 

Just please, please, please, stay alive whilst I break. 

I hope you find the right person who’ll help: the one who knows what they’re doing, the one who isn’t me.

Now if you’ll allow me to depart, I have a craving of both mind and heart, to give myself in entirety, to the cold caress of the unforgiving sea. 

[poets-and-prose]

I’m Glad I Don’t Live Near A Beach

My mind is at the beach and I’m standing in the surf.  It’s the dead of night so only the stars bear witness to my plight.

One step, two step, three. The water, now, is at my knee.

Four step, five step, six. Will I awake near the river Styx?

Mortal ties tether me to the shore,  strings of fate make me crave one day more.  I want to stay tangled up here, grasping at times that make the sun burst from my chest. 

But in this solitary moment, I know I’m not worthwhile.  Cut the strings. Sever the connections.  They’re better off without me. Keep on walking into the sea.

I’m glad I don’t live near a beach because though my thoughts may drown me,  better them than the sea. 

[poets-and-prose]

A Bouquet I'd Give To You

Caladium, great joy and delight.

Pear blossom, affection.

Yellow tulips, there's sunshine in your smile.

Milk Vetch, your presence softens my pain.

Hydrangea, thank you for understanding.

Eglantine, poetry. Which, with a cold, you gave to me.

[poets-and-prose]

Dandelion Wishes

I do not think the things I wish on are really dandelions.  I know the weed, the plant, the flower: the fluffy head of seeds,  the yellow rectangular petals.  But these are motes of fluff on the breeze, small summer snowflakes, delicate and unique. 

I chase them, catch them, be sure not to damage them. I mutter a wish, a plea, a prayer. Then send them back up into warm summer air. 

And, now, I hate to steal your words, the ones you said to me, but you are like a lifetime of dandelion wishes all come true, you see. 

[poets-and-prose]

When I Say You’re Not Hot, What I Really Mean Is

Hot is a cliché from movie scenes. It’s Hollywood and reality TV, the perfect looks from unnatural effort. 

Handsome is sharp and rough. The dark and brooding types from fiction, imposing ones with looks that could cut. 

Pretty is too close to her. Spent too long listening to Pretty Girl, tying that word with the one I wanted for five years.

You are effortless and far from cliché, despite how sappy you can be. You are soft and comfortable, a warm presence, beacon of safety. You are not her.  And that is a good thing, because I never thought me and her would ever really work, but me and you?

Maybe. We’ll see. 

[poets-and-prose]

Skin

Alone In my room, Thoughts running along my skin.  It’s taking everything Not to dig my nails in And peel up slices of flesh, To tear off the layers Until the thoughts calm down.

I will be raw and bloody And free. 

[poets-and-prose]

Untitled Poem #19

It’s easier to hate myself, Try and push people away, That it is to admit I care, Admit I want people to stay. 

I’ve been alone before, And it left me at a loss; I’d have done anything to get out, Anything at any cost. 

But I didn’t reach that point, Go out without being so drastic.  And now I’m back to real life, Hiding shit by being sarcastic. 

At least this all shows I’m self-aware. When I’m alone, there’s only one person I hurt; Keeping others safe is a sign of care. So let me be alone, this I assert. 

Because I know my limits, And know what I’ve done, Know my experiences, Know it’s not too bad when I’m numb. 

[poets-and-prose]

(Fri)Ends

Looking at my friends, Wondering when this ends.  Whether I’ve known them months or years, I’ve still the exact same fears; Know the same facts about myself, I’m no fucking good for anyone’s health.  Two decades and I know me pretty well, A physical manifestation of bloody hell.  And this might seem like self-loathing, But I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Right now, the anxiety keeps shit at bay, But, God, there’s gonna be another damn day Where I reveal my true self and fuck up real bad, And everyone who ever knew me will realise they’re fucking mad.  Because, Jesus Christ, the things I could do; To all my friends, I won’t be good to you. 

[poets-and-prose]

Cliff’s Edge

I’m standing on a ledge, Feet planted firmly on the edge.  Do I jump? Or do I stay? Do I turn, and run away? The cliff face is beginning to crumble, I’m not sure I’m ready to suddenly tumble.  Fog obscures the sea below. Is there danger? I don’t know.  There could be a current that pulls me down, Into murky depths, where I drown. Or there could be rocks that batter and bruise.  Man, there’s far too much to fucking lose.  The sign I saw may have said that this jump is safe, But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be in this place.  I’ve never been one to leap, Least of all into waters so deep. Anxiety outweighs it all, My mind just won’t let me fall. 

[poets-and-prose]

Artichoke Hearts

I read this book called Artichoke Hearts So many years ago; I don’t remember the whole of it, But it’s stuck around in my mind.  There was a sort of truth to it, I find. 

If I remember correctly, the artichokes were a metaphor: Their heart is hidden by layers and layers, A defence mechanism, for sure.  I’m hardly the type to wear my heart on my sleeve, So, for me, the artichoke offered relatability.

The artichoke defends itself from harm, And I rather much do the same, I even block things from myself.  How impenetrable my armour must be, That all my feelings, even I can’t see. 

It’s not a perfect system, I know that much. I know what I should feel, But I can never tell if I do, And that leads to guilt, leads to hate. What did I do to cause this fate?

[poets-and-prose]

How Are You?

You should tell us how you are. I’d write it down on paper, Slip it under their door, Where they’d read it once, Then forget, forevermore. 

You should tell us how you are. I’m a mess curled up on my bed; My face is flooded with tears, Panic is breaking my bones And I’m overwhelmed with fears. 

You should tell us how you are. But a cat has got my tongue; I can’t get any words out, They’re clogged up in my throat.  ‘Why are you fucking like this?’ they shout. 

You should tell us how you are.  Such comments are easier to ignore, No one would listen anyway, I just need to keep this shit inside, Lock it up to keep judgement at bay. 

I don’t want to tell you how I am Because I don’t even know anymore.  My mind is a good for nothing void And there’s nothing, nothing inside.  So feelings and me? You should avoid. 

[poets-and-prose]

Confession

I’d confess to God, if I could But I’m not sure I believe, not sure I should.  So, instead, my guts spill out onto a page, And through the internet, to friends I’ve known an age. 

My feelings right now are such a mess, They’re making me like myself less and less, Because sometimes I like them and sometimes I don’t, And I simply just cannot cope, Because the way that I am just isn’t fair.  I’m scared of this going anywhere.  I know how it’ll end, you see: With me being a dick and ending up just me,  Alone in this place that I’ve grown to love, Because you don’t send the asshole a peace dove. 

So, if God is real, I’d more that confess, I’d pray and ask for help with this distress: God, please give me strength to be honest and true, To know what on Earth is the right thing to do; To not be an asshole who lives with regrets, To not be someone deserving of threats. Let me wake up one morning with feelings consistent,  So that I can stop being so resistant.  Because, right now, my mind is at war with itself; It’s wreaking havoc on my mental health.  All I want is to be a good person; To remain myself, a singular version And not fuck things up with anybody, God, no matter what, please say they’ll stay friends with me. 

So, God, that is my confession: Sometimes because of fucking depression, I don’t like this person even though I should, And, quite frankly, I kinda just wish they would Realise I’m quite a terrible fit, And realise I’m not sure I could commit, Because I only see me ending this one way: With an asshole comment on a pretty bad day, Something I’d never be able to take back, The kind of thing worthy of attack. And the thing that bothers me most isn’t that it’d leave me alone, It’s that I’d have hurt someone, an act I can’t condone.