Llywenlla

nearly home. nearly home. a space and time away from where you want to be: belonging to yourself. there is a midnight garden somewhere inside my lungs, black and tarry from the darkness i am siphoning from your lips to mine, trying to let the light in, trying to stop the hurt becoming a euphemism for two vertical red lines drawn in a bathtub. you have turned me inside out. raw, vulnerable; the silence is an agony. you have wormed your way inside and I have agreed to be your golem, a clay replacement for the affections of the woman who bedded herself beneath your skin and rearranged your spine. even so, let me give til i am a dry husk, let me

Prologue hold back the screams the low wail of pain, the wounded howl.   The agony of tattered, muddled hearts   falling in shadows, dappled on skin.   decision's gristle don't go down easy my womb weeping scarlet:   slow   shedding   of self.   movement aching the fascia wound taut. Pt. 1 invaded and altered   I stand in a wilderness,   savaging myself with thoughts of you.   count the last times the way I once counted the firsts hourglass dwindling walls splintering.   suddenly comprised of   hairline fractures   scared of moving these brittle bones.   armchair demon shotgun destruction   fallen sword. Pt. 2 still haunted by t

Honesty never decides to arrive on time. 1. Without fail, drinking alcohol robs me of the ability to feel gratitude for waking up the next day. 2. My apathy will probably kill me, if the shadow doesn’t first. 3. I’m afraid. 4. I like to read for too long in the bathtub, thinking I might be able to dissolve and emerge in the pages of a story better than my own. 5. Sometimes the daydreams are asphyxiating. 6. Farmer’s markets are a source of unending joy. 7. The effect coffee has on my mood is unholy. 8. I often think about being run over. 9. Confession terrifies me. 10. I’ve never been in a fight but I think I’d

 Give me something more to go on, lying spread-eagled on the floor and loving the bump and grind that’s so at odds with the midnight queen playlist. The promise of the two-hour-orgasm, pouring wine from my mouth to yours. More than the sunset tattoos of bruises, red hand marks on my flesh. A different delineation. A new kind of thrill. Give me something more to go on: more than my own desires. The curling of my toes, held fast on the edge, blood-basted and sticky. Slick with the urge to eviscerate my essence shark-circles slow like southern paddle fans. And then you say something along the same vibrating lines promise me desire and d

 If I was a better person I’d probably not fantasise about my boss being dispatched by the four horsemen of the apocalypse, Sam Hill come to claim his due. Stirred by the sacrifice of my white teeth: coffee stained and looking a little used. If I was a better person I’d probably not write about my wants, twist the knife only to snatch back the words before they fall out of my mouth, cosmetics collecting in the corners of my lips, wine-lined and feeling a little empty. If I was a better person I’d probably not cry to try and make things better. Fix you breakfast and scramble my sense of normalcy. Tiptoeing Janus-like