They might snap easily,

But at least they’re sharp

A weapon used to pierce the skin and coax the blood out of my heart.

Simple little swiping movements,

With hardly any care

For the blood that clots and sticks and stains the ribbons in my hair.

Does the pain even register,

As the turtle chokes on its last few breaths?

Are we waiting for something to sneak up and kill us

So we can scream and fight for the dreams we squashed quite instantly

This is the alphabet of my dreams

And these are the words my skin wears in Sharpie-traced pockets

Of grief,

And pain,

And sorrow.

Coping is never done in the ‘right way’

It is simply about managing the way that we feel

And trying to internalise my forest of burning doves

Without moving a muscle,

Shedding a tear

Or losing a single second of joy.

The condition of Men is defined as a task to be completed

A box to be checked

But there is depth here,

Unexplored, trecharous waves where the great Gods slumber

Waiting for the night the whirlpool sends them flying through the skies and crashing into our world

Where maybe they will be seen again.

~