Self destruction

Self Alienation

Self Alienation

The slow suction of life itself
Trickles down my brain
Finding its way past hope,
Self absorption.
Seeping into the world of me
Vintage doors pinned open
Wide to see – another nail
A second plank over the entrance
Of the place I call home
A fortress of lies
Beyond a moat of shadows
That’s where you’ll find me
Locked in dingy dungeons
Of my own design.

A-Z Challenge: Secretive S

The damage of silence

Was it her?

I ask in earnest, watching your lips stay firmly closed. I know that you think this method is the easiest, that somehow your silence on the subject will halt the conversation, stop my pursuit of the truth. I think maybe you don’t understand the way in which my brain works, and who could blame you as not even her owner has a full understanding, yet I know this much: refusal to talk won’t make me stop wondering, in fact it makes the hunger worse. Instead I needle you for more information, your mouth set into a stout barrier to your words, I pause briefly before trying to explain why I need this. Offer examples of previous relationships soured by the lack of information, the disintegration of trust, yet you don’t understand, or you do and this still does not sway you to share. My persistence, or stubbornness does eventually pay off – in a way: after my pestering train of conversation you admit to what I already knew to be true, but neither of us are better for the interaction: well maybe not just me
The silly thing is that it was a simple question, with a simple answer: there was no hidden agenda that you might have thought, there was no malice or emotion attached: yet the denial or the reluctance to answer was the key to opening another door. Something that would have gone away easy with a grin now still resides in my brain, niggles my mind and forces me to think about it in my times of solitary.

Perhaps, I think you don’t talk because it hurts too much – still: and this is what keeps me awake at night. If you can’t talk about something because it hurts, because it’s still raw then maybe you are not ready to move on at all. Maybe I’m starting to fight a losing battle, again.

I’ve been there before – competing with the shadow of a former love, a rose tinted soul mate, and I can never compare – I know this: nobody can.

It’s that one person, one of those ghosts that people have, those haunting figures that broke their heart, maybe even time and time again. The little deaths that people resign themselves to once they commit to someone heart and soul. You give your everything to them and they take your innocent heart and squeeze out every last ounce of hope and leave you with a tender husk which you learn to closely guard.

There are places and things that are connected to these people. Sometimes it’s a film, a certain phrase, a chain of restaurants, places you both visited, even clothes you wore: all these memories, those little glints of happiness you keep them. They never get spoken about, they are just kept close, little private moments that you can access, unsullied by others, kept only for you.

Whilst this may not be the case for you personally, this is now how it seems, and I wonder if you are really ready for anything as intense as I can be. I wonder if you even want this and all the while I hate the fact that I have been too open…too honest…too free with my words: all which now seem insubstantial, since I had to fight you for yours.


Written for A-Z Challenge: S

Cage of our own making

With walls closing tight

Ever inching inwards

Recycled air

Compresses our breath

As we rally against the inevitable

Limbs, joints, pressed tight into corners

Flesh pushed hard into plaster

Fighting to keep the space

Refusing to accept the confines

Unwilling to see the cell

For what it really is

A glass box of our own construction


A Loose Thread


We sit

And pick, at the delicate edges

This tapestry of ours adorned with such wonder

Filled with passion

Depicting all signs of beautiful life

Yet still 

We sit with sharpened needles

Poised and ready to attack any slight blemish

Ready with clambering fingertips

To pinch

And pull,

to pounce on the slightest stray thread

Eager to draw the cotton through our teeth

And break any notion of unravelling

Though we both know that I cannot resist

The lure of the loose thread

The silent pop as the loop sinks and disappears under the weave

Destruction by my own hand

Is never as sweet as simply enjoying our sumptuous existence

Yet still I roll the silver thread around my finger

And lightly tug