Prickly fir tree
The smell of salt taunts me,
The air is still
And I am stuck.

My wet hair sticks,
Resin pearls on my back.
Prickly fir tree
I wish I could peel

Off the pain
And the heat
That stick to my gut
On this stiff summer night.

Ghastly faces regard me,
Distorted and sweaty;
Bombards my ovaries.

The air is still.

I am heavy
as a hippo, and real.
I was orange and purple
and now I am stale.

Fleshy red eels
Squish me to mush.
My insides are mouldy –
I suffocate, I rust.

The air is still
And I am stuck.

I cannot kill, I cannot kill
This empty shrine
Of flesh, of flesh.
I’m no Ophelia

And death isn’t pretty.
The smell of decay haunts me,
The smell of salt taunts me.
Intoxicating thoughts

Of binaries and wars:
To kill, to create –
My enemy, my love;
Controlled clarity or deadly insanity?

I cannot kill, I cannot kill:

An extension of me
Or a monster in herself.
Fascinating and deadly,
I am golden and immortal.



ramblings on creativity, mental health and a malfunctioning society.

%d bloggers like this: