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my father's love, my first broken bone.

My father says his job is not to teach me to live, But rather how to live without him. A father's job is not to comfort, But instead break you enough times that you find your own comfort.

My father was the first one to break my heart, the first one to break my rose-tinted lenses. My father tells me that they would do me no good. He tells me the world will not change to fit me, I will adapt. My father mocks the tears in my eyes, He does not wait to mock my broken voice.

My father tells me that I need to try harder, or I will rot in my existence. Does he not know that was my plan, because what point in there in trying? My father does not give me a reason to try, and so I return to it.

My father promises he loves me, and yet my father was the one who held me the tightest. His love left me with bruises, and his warmth left me burnt.

My father taught me that not all love is kind or gentle, sometimes love is harsh words and a cold stare. It doesn't make it any less loving.

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I wonder if there is a world out there where I am gentle. Where flowers like daisies grow from each step I taken— Where I have filed down my claws and I do not leave a mark on everything I love.

I wonder if I tried just a bit harder if my voice would be softer, kinder— I wonder if there is a time where I can be soft, and simple.

I wonder if there is a way I could get rid of this family heirloom, this anger, This anger that lingers— Under my nails, in my chest— This painful reminder of my harshness, The abrupt unkindliness of my person.

This anger has been passed down, Father to son, Mother to daughter— A gift that leaves your shoulders heavy and your chest heaving.

There is a reason so many in my family have taken to being loud— I worry that we are not built for being soft. I wonder if there is a day where I will be described as something safe.

When you are born among flames, The ash in your lungs is second nature— There is a reason my parents took up smoking.

There is this burning in my blood— I have my father's eyes ; I have his violence too. I have my mother's hair ; And her loud existence.

I am born into this anger. I am born with this burden. I hope that someday, I will mold myself into something loveable— I think I would enjoy being delicate.

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I will repent until god replaces my decaying flesh, adorning me with light and angel wings so full of life. I will cry to a sky that's empty until the clouds part and I hear the comforting voice of his.

A moment of clarity not yet arrived, but I will clasp the holy beads in my hands as I beg. I will wait for salivation, I will wait for forgiveness. I will do nothing with my wretched body, but scream to the heavens. An untouched mind, clouded and dizzying. A body with bones brittle, ready to snap.

I am not worthy of your forgiveness. I will fix this. I will walk through the river and wash the dirt from all my skin, I will clean the dust from my mind. I will do whatever it takes to feel right. Something akin to toxic, something likely to hurt, I do not think a single thing. I will listen to his word and his Lord only.

I will rid this filthy body and mind of it's crimes. I will be pure. I will be gentle. I will be forgiven. I will have my hands de-clawed and my tounge removed.

I will let the sun set and rise in through my windows.

I will let it hurt until I do not feel the pain.

I will be soft but that gentleness will be a choice.

In dedication. A decadence.

I will whisper prayers in the evenings and at night. I will whisper prayers in hope they will fall upon your ears.

I see myself as something dirty, unforgiven and unsure. You speak of purity and angel wings, I don't think you notice the ones ripped from my back. I dont think you seemed to notice the tears in my skin, Where clawed fingers ripped their way through.

I don't think you heard the violence in my voice as I spoke. I do not think you know much about purity. You do not know how much pain it has taken to become this fragile. You do not know what it takes to be forgiven.

You have cried a thousand times yet you refuse to shed a tear for me. My scars are no better than yours and yours no greater than mine. You speak of kindess, you talk of perfection.

The only perfection you seek is one that does not exist. Open your eyes, the ground is full of dirt. Lay down. Stand up. Feel it. The world is not perfect and neither are you. Pray to a god who has made mistakes. Say the prayers backwards.

Befriend the bugs and the rot. Befriend the forgotten and lonely. Become untouched and unloved. Then; you can speak of kindness. Then, you can speak of soft love and gentle grace.

You have to be bitter to understand that sweetness has a different taste. You have to practice until your fingers bleed before you understand the suffering of the greats. Learn your place, before you tell me about mine.

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devoted to your dagger

everytime we talk the dagger twists, pushes deeper, and i bleed again,

But the metallic taste in my mouth is almost cathartic ; it tastes like a prayer , I will devote myself to you, And to the pain you bring

your hands will be stained ; a bloody red, and my throat will be clogged with roses ; your favourites.

the dagger has our names written on the handle, and our blood combined on the blade.

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the boy in the mirror

On Tuesday last I spoke to a ghost A boy I'd never met In the bathroom mirror He spoke so sadly You'd think the world had left him But really it was him who left the world

The ghost laughed and teased The boys eyes were pure white And it echoed when he spoke But the boy never did say goodbye He writes notes in the steam And sends shivers down my back On early morning days

On Tuesday last I spoke to a ghost, A ghost of a boy I'd never met A friend I never got to know He says he wishes he knew me Maybe he wouldn't be a ghost if he did.

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a pianist among the flames

I am playing and the room is on fire And the keys are on fire And my heart is aflame And my body is drenched in the warmth And the orange red hues engulf the earth But my fingers are still moving And the music is still playing Because the world may be burning but I am alight I will play despite the way it burns I will play until I cannot feel And the world is left in silence As the ashes of my piano lays alone

Because I am playing And the audience is watching The audience is the ropes of blinding heat that wrap Around my feet On the well loved leather stool Which surely will not survive I thank it for holding me By playing a scale that starts with F Until I burn up

But the house is on fire And my lungs are burning with Ash-filled air But I will breathe As long as I can feel the keys And they will let me play A song i know so well The same one That was played on my own heartstrings Before they too Were set aflame And now I sit, in a silent land Of ashes and burnt sheet music.

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