Bursting Bubble

Bursting Bubble

Got that feeling
Unappealing
'stead of healing
Head is reeling
Down here kneeling
I'm appealing
To the ceiling
Are we dealing
With this rubble
Pressure double
Bursting bubble
Mental trouble

No digression
Just confession
My oppression
Is possession
By depression
Not transgression
I'm no sinner
Story spinner
Smirking grinner
Cheating winner

No, my inner
Light is dimmer
Feelings simmer
Barely glimmer
Feeble shimmer
Drowning swimmer
In salt water
Tears that oughta
Merit quarter
From this slaughter

But I'm fated
To be weighted
Inundated
Subjugated
Dissipated
Terminated

The acid test
Of my distressed
Emotive quest
Are you impressed
Or do you jest
While I attest
And bare my breast
With pain expressed?

Light I'm shining
Through my whining
Underlining
My declining
Disposition
Proposition
Hopeful mission
My ambition
Is transition
To remission
Not attrition
Of cognition

Fear and Self-loathing

Fear and Self-loathing

Funny old week. Funny old life, actually, and no mistake. I mean, it really brings it home to you, brings you down to earth with a jolt that might even knock some sense into your tired old grey matter, my girl.

It’s all so… Normal, I guess. No, that’s not it. Not what I meant. Close but no cigar, as they say. Whoever “they” might be. Did you ever wonder about “them”, wonder why or even how they say so much and everybody knows what they’ve said, but nobody knows who they are?

I did. I wondered. Sat awake nights thinking about it. About lots of the things people say. I bet most of the ones who’ve said things to me over the years don’t even remember half of what they said. Not half. Probably not even a tenth of the words they casually tossed at me. Like you’d throw scraps to a dog.

But that was better than the ones who aimed sharp words in place of stones. Teasing they called it. Horrible word. Dressing up their malice in bright clothes to make believe it was fun. I think it was fun for them. Fun to point at the odd one, make sure she knew she was on the outside.

“Sticks and stones” is what I got told when I objected. “Words can’t hurt you.” Those words right there hurt me even more because they told me I was alone.

Being alone. It is my normal, I’m used to it. Everybody leaves me in the end. Still, on the bright side if I’m on my own then there’s nobody there to hurt me more. Just me and my past, strolling hand in hand down memory lane.

Yeah, a dead-end street, that. Past the gutted wrecks and garbage, scabrous walls with the remains of graffiti. Don’t look too closely at where you’re treading, avoid the eyes that peer from shadows.

I remember when all this was trees, when the sun shone and I would run around, laughing. But that was before. You know they say you can never go back? Them again, they get about. Never go back. You want to know why I can’t go back? Because I never managed to leave.

The old home town, you wouldn’t recognise it. All that time, all those lives, gone. Dark now.

Yeah, funny old week, like I said. Being close to Death will do that, you know? All those thoughts of mortality, all that pent-up grief, all the weight of realisation that you don’t deserve to be the one left.

I should ask them why, next time they’re around. Who knows, maybe this time they’ll tell me.

Anyway, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?

And you?

Rising Dark

Rising Dark

Day 29 of 30 Days of Poetry

A pencil and acrylic sketch on paper of a girl sat looking dejected, arms around her knees and head down, in front of a lit candle with a glowing halo around the flame. Around her is darkness out of which are rising black nightmare figures
Across the fields they fly,
Fleet shadow wraiths unseen
By stolid human eye.

Yet keener souls divine:
Dogs bark a herald cry
Then cower with a whine.

Foul spirits of the night
Round my lost soul entwine,
All summoned to my plight.

The candle flame burns lean,
Its feeble dying light
Faint hope to stand between.

Food: My Best Frenemy

Food: My Best Frenemy

Food is my best friend and worst enemy. Few pleasures compare to a good meal, and few leave me as wracked with guilt.

I’ve always liked to eat. As a child I rarely had to be encouraged to finish my plate; indeed I would often go back for more. My parents encouraged me, praising my appetite, and I have long sought to feel accepted and secure through praise.

Food became a source of comfort, making up for a dearth of friends. Reliable: a sure rush of pleasure and a slow come-down in the warm afterglow.

I might often feel lonely but I can always rely on eating to take my mind off that for a brief spell, fill the aching void and dull the pain.

And yet…

As I gnaw my way through the pile of food, gnawing back at me from inside comes my guilt. Guilt at overindulgence, guilt for my lack of self-control, guilt for my obesity, guilt for my weakness.

So I purge. Put my finger down my throat as far as I can reach to trigger the gag reflex, make my stomach spasm and eject the food I just ate and that weighed so heavily on my mind.

I keep going until I am dry retching, nothing left, red-faced and struggling for breath. Eyes blurred by tears. I blow my nose, clean up, rinse out my mouth and wash my hands. Realise that the emptiness remains, that the aching remains, that the guilt remains and was not voided along with the food.

My thoughts turn to food again, my desire for comfort warring with what remains of my will. I choose emptiness this time and sit in melancholy silence while the void inside feeds itself on the remains of my tattered soul.