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Posts Tagged ‘frustration’

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

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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

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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

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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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This is a story, a pained sigh in the housing of a page.

A hundred pair of rolled eyes have bound this.

Left it sealed as tight as that hidden box of intellect that small girls pack away with the sound of the plastic rustling on their first padded bra.

It’s a stark view, the female mind to the outside

What do you contribute?

Encasing your mind in concrete, lest it be discovered and picked clean.

Ten words

Ten short moments

Ten ways to not be raped

Ten ways not be beaten beyond what you deserve

Ten ways to ensure that you are, after the age of ten, alive, dialled down, functioning and fully integrated.

Fucktoy                                Appreciative                      Pretty                   Muted                  Hesitant                               Chattel                 Accepting                            Sacrificing                            Forgiving                                                              Capitulating

From pigtails to rohypnol

This is the story of ten words to help you navigate, to fly under the dominating radar

To be the girl that is to be owned with a veil and a hymen intact, or at the very least a count under seven of previous owners.

A tale of ten small words to keep you small

To differentiate between Dolly and Doxie

Ho’ and Her.

Ten words preferable being fucked up the ass in an alleyway by a faceless stranger because he can and you can’t do a single thing to prevent it because you lost your way.

Distracted amongst the millions of words in the English language.

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One Casualty

You, I, there is no feelings here

You are built on a construct of lies and invention

I, have no capacity for warmth

Once upon a time I was punished with some extremely bad prose

Rhyming out my failings at great length

I am sure you can improve on this auto-biographic nightmare of confusion

And twisted pride than you are subjecting me to.

After all, I didn’t pluck you out of the crowd for your looks

Or Prize winning personality

It may not have been for your breath-taking intellect

But yet… I hold out hope that you can do more than

Lament and attract flies

Throw and crush and maul

Am I the only place you can relieve your pain

I know your taste, I can’t supply this fix

You can buckle down this cunt and rip and envy

I met you, this mess I bring

You have an impossible dream that I will feel

Your slamming door being the moment of realisation

They leave the same way, unwitting, controlled

Don’t change, I have been here all these years

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The way that you stone cold

Stone cold knocked the breath

From my lungs

With a well placed word

And stepped over my wasting heart

Was that kind of cold

That I fucked you for in the first place

I got no excuse

For these thousand chattering moments

That are, consistent in their mocking

You scraped clean this void

Before blood, iron and you were erased.

Always been my own

A step closer

Closer to finding that sum total of zero

Why don’t you see, the words are small rejections

It is not me, it is you

It is not you, it is me

It is all just another sliver of disgust

30 minutes of mastering domination

With clammy desperation

You are just another dripping disappointment

In a line of disappointments which is perhaps

A little lengthy for good taste.

He scraped me clean, dry, brittle, dust and bone

You sit next to me, all keen curiosity

Me the figment in the gift shop window

I don’t want to be bought, picked up, polished

Placed on your pedestal, pretending

That this is not just loneliness and some

Bad memories spilling out over the sound waves

Each touch is poison in my blood

I miss him in the moments when this all starts

This memory turns to the falling

Cleans him till he leaves me lonely

Paper thin and rising

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