Poetry

Such small hands, such a small voice.
What once was ours was taken without a choice.
If only I could go back to that day,
the day we met the monster.
We would have walked through it together, all the way.

My dissociative disorder was never our problem.
We functioned. We thrived. We loved.
It was only when she came,
dancing over my pain,
that our journey ended
while she carried on the same.

You love me,
you unravel me,
you tear through my thickened skin compelled by your desire to know me.
You should leave me tangled,
you should leave room for mystery,
because you will only find darkness in me…
my love.

Debilitatingly sick and tired,
losing sleep because I’m wired.
No matter what, I can’t stay hired.
I’m always the one who’s fired.

I can’t meet what’s required,
I’m never fucking desired.
My mind feels miswired,
their judgments uninspired,
and every doctor’s word
just feels like they conspired.

I’m told there’s something here to learn,
but I don’t feel enlightened…
only burned.

Softly parted bark-brown strands,
woven into them are the fingertips on my hands.
Piercingly blue, sky-like spheres, gazing at them with eyes full of tears.
Elegantly pronounced syllables that you make sound prettier than life,
I can't see you now because those words cut like a knife.

I bled in front of my enemy,
and she poured another drink.
I bled in front of my enemy,
as she told me what to feel, what to think.
I bled in front of my enemy,
and she was humoured by my pain.
I bled in front of my enemy until she felt the same.

A soul at peace with the ending,
feels no envy for the lives of others.
For they alone have found contentment,
in knowing they have lived enough.

You never complimented my body…
but at least you touched me.

You never believed a word I said…
but at least you listened.

You never loved me at all…
but at least you said the words,
as if saying them was enough
to make them true.

Then one day…
the green grass, the rising sun,
and the cheerful morning birds
all turned dull.

And I found myself wondering,
at what point,
did the darkness,
become more beautiful,
than the light?

“Your personality is disordered”,
is it 'cluster a' or 'cluster b'?
Doctors say I'm too complex,
to get to know me.
Maybe, cluster c...
because of my anxiety.
Can't you tell?
This feels like a fictional reality.

I’ve been sitting in this bed
since I was thirteen,
me, not her…
someone should have intervened.

I’ve watched her do things
I would never choose,
and some of us think
we’re clever in what we do.

But now we’ve reached the ending
of this long, shared endeavour…
a chapter closing,
one we couldn’t hold together.

I love the ocean,
yet I fear it too.
I go to its shoreline
whenever I’m feeling blue…

But the ocean comes to find me
in the shadows of my dreams,
pulling me beneath the surface,
as I search for what it means.

The water always takes me,
my grip slips, I’m gone.
And the last thing I witness
is my loved ones happy that I’m gone.

If I spoke to you in fifteen years,
would you be able to forgive?
If my fifteen years never came,
would you still be ruminative?
If for a million times over fifteen years I had to painfully relive...
would you forgive me, my darling, for having no life left to give?

We live in a world where we block our lovers,
as if we weren’t just tangled beneath the covers.
The purest things left on earth are the dogs and the bees,
I don’t crave love anymore,
not the way I crave the oxygen in the trees.

How do I explain
that I’m asleep while wide awake?
Staring into the abyss,
swallowing more pain than anyone should take.

An hour slips by,
a sudden sound, a rising crowd…
I surface into consciousness,
faces blurring, too bright, too loud.

None of them feel real,
and every fear I must conceal.
Dissociation whispers, “How did I get here?”
a question circling with every lapse,
every disappearance I fear.

If everyone around you is a narcissist,
then what does that make you?
So wrapped up in your own ego,
you think we’re all orbiting you.

I told you to self-reflect,
but you stared at the reflection of your ass.
And honestly? There’s nothing left to say…
I’m gone, first class.

I don’t care for your last words;
they never should have been the ones that mattered.
If you’d shown compassion from the start,
maybe my heart wouldn’t have shattered.

Tell me something,
something I haven’t heard before.
Is this all a competition?
Go on then… what’s your score?

A game to you,
but his whole life to me.
Show some regard,
that’s how it’s meant to be.

My inner child still tries
to see the world through my eyes.
They tell me to search for the person I was
before my mind began to divide.

But I don’t want to live as a six-year-old
inside a twenty-seven-year-old’s skin.
That was the age I was
when my sanity first started wearing thin.

The last words my mother said to me were,
“fuck you too.”
I’d only gone to see her, desperate,
asking what I should do.

Six weeks of “psychosis”
cost us six whole years…
and now she wonders why
abandonment anchors all my fears.

She shaped me into this,
yet resents the person I am.
A mother’s love should never
feel like a trick, a lie, a scam.

It wasn’t that you wished for me to live,
only that I wouldn’t die too fast.
A slow unraveling suited you better, didn’t it?
To watch me suffer, breath by breath,
until I had nothing left to last.

Everything is temporary, you’ll be okay”…
That was all I could find the strength to say.
“Soon you’ll be happy,
these tears won’t last all day”…
But I never mentioned the truth:
some burdens linger anyway.

I feel foolish for promising it would all be over soon,
because when temporary trauma returns again and again…
it stops feeling temporary at all—
and the heart learns to live with doom.

I landed in a borrowed earth,
A stranger witnessing my own rebirth.
Was my soul meant to slip the tether?
As trembling palms grew colder, then wetter.

My past dissolved like smoke in air,
No roots, no name, no memory there.
A path unfolding wordlessly,
I walk it guided, by fate, by mystery.