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The splinter sometimes works its way through

Just deep enough under the skin

To provoke the split

Between outside and in

A view through the haze

Of bare survival

Of dampening down every nerve

Still beating a rhythm

I scream

Impassive responds

With the like

There is nothing of note here

Other than duty, capability

Duty, duty, duty

Nothing builds

No structure

What will breach

And birth the waste

Screaming bloody, hoarse, loaded

Impassive responds

With the like

This is not what I do

There is no right time to pull through

No shoulder, no deeper, no grace

No space

For leading the way through the impassive

No anchoring line

I hear the whispers

Baby I hear them speaking the truth

To fall for you

I’ve heard your words fall from a thousand lips

From faces no longer clear

You can’t have me

Pay no mind to my consent

Pay me no mind

There is nothing good left between

 

Glacier passion devoid

If it makes you less sad

Consider me a broken thing

Beyond emotional recovery

Still fit to ride

Past investment

Holding fast and whittling away

 

When the light falls

And I become a still, solitary shadow

Don’t turn it into something it’s not

You took all I have

Frozen cunt

Disengaged gag reflex

The place where I feel home

You can take my mind on an adventure

Show it the world, let it sin and stain

Until it becomes static

A head on the shoulders

Of age

Pain

Fearful living and failure of oblivion

It is so easy to remember the sweet

Drowning of the mind

The quiet

Now the volume is a solitary mute

You changed

I did not change

You grew

I grew stunted

And looking into your eyes, I see the climate change

Further away from you

My bruises show

My

Allegiance to the static

My beautiful one

I will supply you with the armour

The escape plans, the bullet proof vest

Underwired but appropriately covered

You can follow in my footsteps

Well-trodden paths

Of torn minds, broken bones and secrets

Whispered upon deadened, cold, hollowed skin

I will keep you safe my little one

My beautiful one

Don’t be closer to confident than necessary

Don’t ever let the ball drop

Don’t embrace freedom, wind, hope or self-possession

I will teach you the quickest way from the bottom to your feet

Vigilance and accession

Hear my words, weary and earnest

I see the path ahead, hacking at thighs

Chasing the aesthetic

Trying to remember the words that keep you safe my little one

Side stepping and traditional pride

There is a time to please, to appease, to apologise

For the tease, for existence

To apologise for the breasts, and the audacity

To want ownership, to be landed gentry of the manger

To pray less than politely for a lack of invitation from

The testosterone laden entitlement

When you trust him, the deceit still sits

In that firm space between gender specifications and stereotypes

I’m afraid, I’m sorry

Your cunt is forever a bridle, securing avoidance, submission and admission

Firmly in persona

Under his hand

Your mind undermined

In a flinch

Under his hand

I’m afraid, I’m sorry

That you won’t recognise this binding, fixed position

Until he quenches his thirst in your objections, absorbing words into penetration

Wrapped in an ovarian chain of expectation

How to save a life

Small music on my mind

Brings me to you

In a haze of humiliation and bemusement

I remember those drowning days

Of pained misery

Here I am, standing the way I am supposed to be, stilled and silent

Inert for that few moments of relief from the paralysed blood sluggishly driving me away from reality

My mind whispers, an explosion in the silence

I just really want to fucking feel anything but this absence of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

(heart) (head) (hope) (ambition) (noise) (warmth) ( of

My body is battle worn, scarred and no longer up to the challenge of a fluttered eyelash

Without the body, the walls are a thousand years in standing, a thousand ships launched and dashed like hope

This body is cleaved, deformed and moulded now to a fearsome sight

The mind is a bear chewing off its own leg

Absent and running on instinct

Give it all away

I lost count of the number at that cold, calculating age of eighteen

And some months

As another slightly shrivelled disappointment

Pumped the last of its vigour

Into the empty receptacle at three in the morning

Behind the NCCP car park near that little club with the sofas

Before comfort became a necessity in nightclubs

And excess was a necessary outlet for madness

That beautiful insanity that accompanies the absoluteness of that cold, calculating age of eighteen and some months

The number rose, the incessant pounding wearing the walls smooth

Worn, weary, a thousand years of subtle change, to evolve

Lackluster, listless passion dissipating into resignation

Once I was indignant, with the world at my feet and the bay at my mercy

Until I stopped counting the numbers

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