I was always praised for my ability to die quietly
I don’t cry and complain like my sisters
I don’t act out in violence like my brothers
I’m sitting quiet and contemplative
Until I become still enough to stop my heart

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@somebadpoetry
I was always praised for my ability to die quietly
I don’t cry and complain like my sisters
I don’t act out in violence like my brothers
I’m sitting quiet and contemplative
Until I become still enough to stop my heart
April is killing everything from me
What I have never had
What I had and lost
What I kept in clenched fists
This month tastes like an enemy
April comes with sorrow
Leaves burn in the hot and cold sun
Turning brown and falling
Rain pounds the dirt like it’s trying to drill through
To the worms who crawl out
Your bravery is noted
There is just enough time to kiss the concrete
The rain ends as abruptly as it starts
Making way for the blistering sun which fries
This poor helpless, squirming beast
March whispered you a promise which April would not keep.
March like the rain offered you something
Of certainty and clarity, unwelcome but required
You and I were wrapped in the nervous excitement
A future that was laid out like stone
Lined paths through gardens
If not for April
I want to build a beautiful life
But I’m still losing years
To grief, to loss, to loneliness
I raise my glass
And it is filled with my tears
Would you still love me if I was a worm?
Would you still love me if I was mindless?
Would you still love me if I was writhing in the dirt, tasting through the leaves to make mulch?
Would you still love me if I was buried in the soil and only came up when it rained?
Would you still love me if I was trapped on the concrete, burning alive and dehydrating because I lost my way back home?
Would you still love me if I was being pulled apart by ants, that are just the same as me; mindless and buried in the dirt?
This used to make me happy
Music thundering in my ears and lights
cutting through darkness so all you see are moments
Now I just feel tired
And ill
You need something to fill the void
And I can make a machine that tells you it loves you
You feel, just for a millisecond, something flutter in that void
The projection of a butterfly landing on a flower
Maybe this is what it feels like when you’re just starting to fill up
You’ll have a million real butterflies soon and the machine that tells you it loves you will project them all
And you don’t need real butterflies anymore
And even though you’re hollow and the people who have butterflies look at you
Like they look at the dying
You’re full of butterflies
Can’t they see them too?
“Mum’s gonna miss my birthday
But she’s flying me to Morocco,
So it’s up to you. Unless Jay says yes first.”
“Yeah, I just don’t know because of, you know, everything right now. I don’t know.”
How can I do this again?
And I am going to live like this.
Despite it all.
A moth is caught in the panelling of the house
Like a dark, unpainted knot of wood against the white
Between it and freedom are invisible webs
Silk to feed
I break the sticky strands with my fingers,
Feel the tug of hunger that put them there
And save the moth, which can now fly freely
They ask r u sure
As if a drunk friend asking are you sure is the same
As if r u sure is the same without you bent over the toilet
At is if you sure sit t teb same question ebeb tho can barely feel your fingers
I’ve always been indecisive,
Are you sure was always
We’re going to leave you
I’ve been trying to be kinder to myself.
When my skin itches, I resist the temptation to peel my skin from my muscles. Instead, rubbing with the pad of my finger, which leaves no marks.
When my hair falls out of place, I try not to follow instinct and tug it roughly back.
I reach up to the wayward strands and find my mother’s fingers in my hair.
How many times have I moved the way she taught me?
Like a copy of her,
Fixing our hair, sipping our coffee, standing
A little off centre
So much of me is her reflected,
And I look to her as I’m growing older
Seeing as much of me in her as her in me
I wonder if my mother was always so rough with us. Was she softer on my sisters? When I look at how she treats herself I wonder if she hates me too. Has she tried to be gentle with herself? Will I fail too?
When I think of how she raised me, she tells me how gentle she was.
The effort of kindness that she took on.
Oh, I see…
we got it from our mothers
The world shakes with song
Our bodies our minds
Intertwined in dance and rhythm
Shatter shatter vibration
Dance to the feeling in your feet
Forget what you knew about this beat
It’s all sensation now
I just have this deep longing to be on the train going north.
I don’t care for the stop at the end
I just want to be away from here
I want to be on the train, going somewhere for a long time
2 employees on their ways to their jobs
One tradie one pencil pusher
Star crossed lovers or strangers in the bustle?
The only thing they have in common is coffee
I don’t love formaldehyde
We developed to consume and be consumed in turn
Sleeping beauty in a crumbling tower
Snow White in a glass coffin
Eternity in a box, unrotted and untouched,
the most unbearable burden I can conceive
Is to not allow the world to take its natural course
To never age, to die young, and to stay beautiful forever
I love my wife