Delly

A 15 year old version of me who’s dream I’ve held gently in cupped hands. And now, I tear the dream like the fragile thing it is.

I’d like to think of it as silk… threads tearing apart. Crying. Breaking. Ripping like intestines in a cannibals hands. Or between the clenched teeth of a beast.

It’s a violent thing, yes.

Maybe disturbing. But that’s what it is.

I’m destroying her dream. Something I promised I’ll have come to fruition, just to walk over it like fallen leaves. Not even savoring the sweetness of its crunch. Something only a monster does.

But something she’ll be too hurt to hear, to acknowledge, to believe—because I’m the villain who harmed something innocent… her dream was childish. Unrealistic. Stupid. Missing the essence of maturity that the poor thing never had—not that I blame her for that. There’s a privilege in not growing up too fast. I’m glad she had that childlike wonder.

Luckily, I can do something with her dream. But it’ll change it at its core. She can’t see it being anything other than what she wanted. What she decided it to be. But there is no other way… to let it see the light without shriveling up. To hold up to scrutiny. To be respected.

She’s such a petulant thing. Stubborn. Head strong. Fucking annoying, but if I do it, if she sees it, all the anger will melt. All the knots will unravel and she’ll give it a chance. I know that, but it’s going to be a trial to make it happen.

Sometimes, I prefer the world in my head more than the life that I live on a page.

There’s a sweetness to it. There is a bitterness to it too.

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TW: depression, suicidal ideation, sore

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Slug Trails

There is a weight behind my eyes,

Heavy, demanding crystalline beads

I yearn for slug trails to coat my cheeks,

A martyr of my own misery.

There is a goo lacing through the tubes in my head,

Turns and halls encased in slime.

It bleeds into my chest,

Swelling the vast nothingness consuming my gut.

I turn to mush.

I contort myself into pursed lips and sealed up earth.

I cocoon myself in this ache overcoming my throat.

My voice isn’t mine.

A foreign entity, now protesting its identity.

It takes a line from me.

Fastening me in a net before I’m plunged into an ocean.

There is no purpose to leave me here, but for its own amusement.

I wish to be an echo.

To be repeating,

To be haunting, instead of having the haunting done onto me.

It plays a song in my head of all that I am, and all that I will never be.

I make myself at home in this cave that is my head.

I stare at the shards of limestone accosting me—

Threatening me with an oblivion /I/ can only claim.

It dangles peace, just out of reach,

Just enough to give me relief as it tortures me with time.

With wait.

With the absolution of nothing.

This is when I remember, this will be my existence.

Valleys and peaks of over-consuming emotions.

I will sprout wings and know the taste of air.

But I will know the loss of feathers, and the fall that shatters bones.

I’ll be shoved into a cast no one sees,

In a tomb of my own minds making.

This is the traitor in my skin.

My uplifter.

My lover.

My greatest enabler.

Than shifts in my gut,

It’s lead in my bones.

The secret scolded, punishing me for grasping the hand they extended.

The cheerleader whispering to me the greatness of nothingness.

I wish to be crystalline.

I wish to be pearlescent.

I wish to be something marvelous.

Something that glimmers and captivates;

Something that doesn’t cut and mutilate;

Something that wraps me in velvet and silk.

There is a thought of spiderwebs.

Of this delicate silk;

So astounding,

So resilient that steel can not help but rust at its mention.

I want to be this spider,

This crafter with just her web and eight legs.

I want to encase the maggots of the world,

Rinse the earth clean.

But I pollute the air with my own existence.

I myself am the beast chasing the protagonist in this story.

But the protagonist is a figment of my own imagination…

Something a twisted part of me invented.

Invented to keep me from driving and twisting the knife into my ribs.

But the sound of my bones breaking,

Of muscle tarring,

Of the gasp of air leeching out of my lungs…

This is the sound I hunger for.

The blood my hands demand to feel before I feast on myself.

I tear through cartilage.

I pick at the fibers in my teeth.

I swallow whole and never digest.

This pit just consumes.

This grave just holes.

This earth never degrades and brings forth new life.

I am absent of potential,

I lack a start.

Deprived of nitrogen.

There is a thirst in my throat,

Pushing slugs up into my mouth.

Stopping all air before my eyes release molten beads,

Before acid scorches my skin.

And a flurry of meat and ropes of tissue poor out of me.

I am filth.

Pushing this spotter of blood and muscle

I decorate the ground with a sickening smile.

I do not know this monster moving outside of me,

Holding my spirit in the air to torment me with this gore.

I see wriggling slugs and worms that thrived in the depravity that is my body.

My voice is satisfied with my own defilement,

It’s what I deserve for using it all this time.

My lungs cum from the consumption of these pests devouring me,

The mercy I never gave myself.

My head tenderly kisses the casket that is my shell,

It’s the relief it’s been begging for.

There is more parts of me that sprawl and take it’s own shape.

They celebrate my own decay

All while I sit still at the dinner table,

Carrying all this inside without flinching;

Taking its strikes like the filth that I am.

And at the end of the night,

I am ripe for the taking.

A bag of bones and holes.

A sack of obscenity ready for use.

I’ll be given praises,

Receive tender touches,