Old poems.

I've been cleaning out my computer and I keep finding all of these amazing things I've written over the years. I'm floored by how talented I once was, even amongst my illness. Not to say I don't still possess that talent, it's just fueled by different things and is severely less therapeutic. Oh well! I'm sharing some of my favorites.

What have I left to say?
You have said it all,
leaving me closed mouthed
and restless,
reading over all the words
you couldn’t keep to
yourself.

This shouldn’t have been for you.
I am ashamed to say
it
was.
I wore my bones
like golden medallions,
proud,
proud,
proud,
waiting
for acknowledgment
from your distracted
eyes.
It never came,
but the bones remained,
speaking the words
my mouth
could not articulate,
jutting forward
as I turned inward,
and fell backward
into
the deep black hole
of
fun house mirrors,
of
pretty little girls
with teenytiny
waists
and red lips
that I could not
emulate.

I was (am) simply
Too Much.

But still not enough
to quench your
desires.

You turned towards the bones
of a pretty little girl,
teenytiny waist,
red lips,
perfect legs
and
fell in love
with her empty head,
devoid of the demons
that had so riddled
the intricate spider webs
of logicality
weaving throughout
my mind.

My heart was full,
bursting with every beat
(for
you)
so
why,
oh,
why
was an empty
stomach
too much
to
love?

________________________________________

These long, delicate fingers –
what of them now?
No longer an aid in my self-destruction,
what brings beauty to their
intricate,
wrinkled
design?

I have this pen to write,
a piano to play,
a clay to mold.

But, what,
what
now
of this empty, dry
throat
that begs and pleads
with aching desperation
for a visit from their
dearest,
veined
friends?

_________________________

I sat in window sills observing stars,
on couches observing the starless,
thin skin worn like courage
around the bones.
Their eyes were black.
Where was the spark?

The sky holds the light
but
I cannot reach.

___________________________

I had a dream I almost
slept with your best friend
and then woke up
beside him
with a headache
and a pang of regret.
What did I know,
what did he know,
what did we know?
Besides our marionette bodies
orchestrated by our
insatiable craving
in the dark.
He had no face,
I had no voice,
the fluid movement of
nothingness rocking a
mattress that wasn’t
mine.

You heard the creaking
of my limbs,
the breaking of my heart,
studying from afar,
where I kept you
to observe.
To see, but not to touch,
to know, but not to love,
for what was love
if all I knew was a
stranger
with rough hands
and a calloused mouth?

I could love you,
it could hurt you,
could I hurt you?
Have I already?
Time is fickle
and yours has come
but has mine passed
with the winter wind?

I’m still cold down to the
core, beneath the skin,
beneath the bones,
desperate for the warmth
of another body,
always tumbling into arms
that cannot catch,
cannot protect,
and I wonder
(do you wonder?)
where your arms have been.

________________________________

Three little red lines
strewn lazily across a canvas
of porcelain stomach.

Three little red lines
desperate to carve away the
unwanted flesh and revive the dead
from beyond the grave.

Three little red lines
of guilt
of loathing
of exhaustion,
scabbing over and refusing to be seen.

Three little red lines
have long since disappeared,
but I can still remember the pain
behind your eyes
upon discovery of my crimson demons
and I wonder,
even now,
if you kept the scars
for yourself,
knowing I wanted them
more than
I wanted
you.