Hands

You deconstruct me,
you pick me apart,
excruciatingly and harsh.

You knock me down,
shatter me completely,
even as you pick up the pieces
and give them to me
to prove how much I need you.

You held me together for so long,
and yet you hold me back,
and here you hold me down now,
and I sobscream as I flee.

I stumble, blackened vision,
lumber shockpetrified
at my own made cliff,
and each sharpened,
shattered shard below
was placed there
fully knowingly
by my own shaking hands.

Fracture

You fracture me,
splintered and gasping,
crack me apart so completely.

Bleeding stumps I claw,
collecting the shards of myself,
slicing my scar tissue
as I clasp the fragments in the blackness.

The thin pierces of light
serve only to illuminate my rumination,
I memorize the shards,
befriend them.

I know every point and helpless sliver,
I arrange them,
mesmerised by the sticky wetness
colonising the dark refraction.

I fail to see how even this clotting, clumping ooze
could glue my meaning into anything tangible.

I fall back on patterns,
arrange the destruction,
a lost solace in structure.

Glass

I feel it lurch up inside me as its confines break,
though, in honesty, its enforced bondage
was half hearted at best.

Fine, I tell its sharp clear fluid embrace.
You are right, I need you.

Please help me move this form
so we can get there,
so we can buy some more,
and then your dripping calm can slither down,
wrap yourself around my throat
and meet your corporeal double
in my quivering stomach.

You can dance your magic in my veins,
pull up the covers in my mind
and I can rest in sublime stupor.

I apologise in advance
when I evict you prematurely,
I’m just scared, you see,
of your power over me.

I do so love the way
you calm the angry ocean’s waves,
tuck analysis in tight
and refuse to listen to it
calling out in the darkness,
flow into my limbs
and smooth over the gaps
in my ever strained control.

I do not like the way you pitch my insides skyward
when you’ve pooled densely enough,
or turn up the tears hair trigger,
or scratch desperately my oesophagus
in a duplicitous gasp to hold in
as you throw out.

But I forgive you,
as you knew I would,
because I have done so
each time we part.
I don’t really mean it
as I flush you away,
pour you out,
smash your earthly vessels.

Because as much as I hate you,
I love you,
and I need you so,
and nothing much patrols
the terrors in my head
like you do.

Clarity

Clarity.
Coherent, cogent clarity.
This plain, slippery panacea slides
smoothly through my skin,
tugs briefly on the adipose
as it passes into the muscle.
Slowly, slowly I depress the plunger.
Contrarily, the depression
of this tiny rubber tipped plastic wand injects miracles,
exquisite transformational power.
 
Decades of desperately grasped hope,
dozens of coated, scored,
encapsulated sparks of professed potential,
controlled releasing nothing
but side effects and disappointment.
 
But here in this unassuming fatty conduit
lies the entirety of existence,
the ability to unlock and unravel me most completely.
I do not expect this.
I do not fathom the world inside that is still to explode
into a glittery symphony of bright noise and stillness.
That this thin, metallic bridge that extends into me,
that pushes slowly the infused oil,
will set my mind and body alight with the coldest flame.
 
This oil intently greases the levers and cogs of thought,
aligning the dilapidated creaky mechanisms
stuck tight and pained for so long.
As production progresses, the jarring, clanging gears
that grind and shatter any attempt at revolution are replaced,
perception and sensation
no longer scratch and scream and stab.
 
My mind seems to open up,
I fling open long closed doors to untold horrors,
only to realise that the hand and heart
that wringingly sealed and recorded the contents of these rooms
is very different to those opening them.
Torturous terrors, recalled in trembling script,
frightened someone much smaller,
brutally fragile and fraught.
 
Light and distance bring perspective,
each room faced and cleared offers more air,
more space to exhume and examine.
 
The corpses of the past turn to dust.
I let them blow away.