Split second

You are alive
thank god
but your ghost
walks still
No split second of time
could haunt me more
than the fraction
moment I paused
before picking up
your call


I am done doing your dirty work, world

I am done doing your dirty work, world
I have too many better things to do
I will not be your police force, world
I will not be your enhanced interrogation expert
I will not be your intelligence agency, world
I will not be your paramilitary wing
I am done doing your dirty work, world
Your units are not welcome in my head
I am done doing your dirty work, world
Do it yourself if you want me dead.


It doesn’t start out
as a scream this time,
but builds from a slow scratching,
a low whine.
A wild animal waking up, pacing.
Moving frantic and bars clawed.

I lie on my bed,
and stare at the ceiling.
I feel it inside me
as animal breaks from its cage.
A wolf snarling bristle,
I’m agitated hopeless,
and I’m losing my mind
as I’m losing control.

I sit straight up in bed.
My wild wolf has made his way
to the very surface of me.
I feel him trying
to jump out of my chest,
every beat of my heart
a freedom attempt,
each slipping bit by bit
from already tentative control.
He’s going to take me.
He’s going to take it all.
I need to give him something, stall him,
because I am not quite yet ready to go.

I jerkily scramble
through my bedside drawer,
and I find my amiable blade,
amongst random bauble scraps.

I sit in bed
with my razor
and pain,
and my wild animal
barely restrained,
but restrained enough only
not to tear my own wholly
horrorbeast body to pieces.

I see only blood,
pouring rivers of blood.
and I see myself,
stretched arms impossible wide,
sliced from palm to shoulder,
wretched red from both sides.
I see the blood
from my flapping throat
gush down my body,
scarlet contrast starkly
with my brittle naked pale.

Then the walls start bleeding,
and the ceilings swooping in,
it is poisoned birds
and choking clouds
And I don’t know where
or what I am.

My mind has disengaged
as I scrape the blade down wrist.
Deep scratches,
Claw marks,
Again. Again. Again
My wolf falters final
and lets me breathe again
for now.


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.

Bloody friend

My friend makes me leave the house.
Its 11:30 at night but I need to get out of here.
We walk to the park, every step a staggering torment.
I cannot explain to him how much energy,
how much effort it takes to move,
to keep my head upright.

I sit down, lie. I stare at the sky.
It is dark, cloudy, starless, obscured.
My friend tells me I cannot lie here.
He drags me up, walking again.
To the park.

I have no energy,
I cannot be bothered,
I do not care.
Shadows play on the buildings, the slides, the bars.
Dark spirits in all my corners, behind my eyes.

He moves me like a sad doll,
a paltry imitation of life.
I sit on the swings, the roundabout.
Even in my hideous state I see the irony:
a children’s playground, primary coloured fun and gaudy,
a tiny freak, brittle suicidal pale.
Eerie fairground music fills my ears
and I laugh and laugh and laugh.
I cannot explain how much I want to die.

Broken glass at the bus stop is made
for carving my pain onto my body,
maybe then people might understand the things
I am barely holding onto inside myself.

I have run out of books in my minds library
into which to scratch scrawled ramblings in my own blood,
and now I’m just piling all the furniture
into the centre of the room as a pyre.

I sit with my friend at the bus stop and cry.
My tears make friends with the rain.
I find it increasingly hard to speak,
to move my legs one in front of each other.
All my energy is gone, drained,
a puppet abandoned by it’s master.

We go back to his place.
Stare at the ceiling together.
I show him my bandages,
their bloody friends beneath.
Finally, finally, we talk.