#anonymoussecrets

You have traced my skin so many times, I still see the imprints of your fingernails on the insides of my thighs. Of all that I have felt, the walls of your heart are the hardest, the cracks in them stuffed with fragments of me. Yet, of all that i have tasted, the insides of your soul are the sweetest.

They say you leave parts of yourself in the people you love but you also lose pieces of yourself to the ones who love you. 

Of all that I have kissed, your darkness is the most lingering. My lips and my notebooks are stained with the its callous caress, inky black as the midnight sky.

They say you left me here a mess but I’ve never felt closer to you. The ghost of our memories haunts me constantly. For you, in departing physically, have diffused the essence of your heart into me. You have taken permanent residence in me.  

I hold you close. And now and hereafter, you are within me. 

Typical. Typical.

Nobody wants what they can get.

Despicable. Despicable.

They don't really care, I bet.

Sinister. Sinister.

You know I'm doing all I can.

Amateur. Amateur.

'Here she comes again, Oh man.'

What is it? What is it?

Why don't you want me there?

Just admit. Just admit.

I know you don't really care.

But I try. But I try.

Can't you spare me just one glance?

I can't cry. I can't cry.

Why won't you give me a chance?

I can be. I can be.

I try to make everyone happy.

'Can't you see? Can't you see

You are not at all worthy'

I still smile. I still smile.

Holding it all deep inside.

Stinging bile. Stinging bile.

Again I try to shake it aside.

-Ch. D.

A poem request by @small-town--r

is it like climbing out of a crater with a rope

or like inching your way through your favourite dessert

when your stomach’s ready to burst?

does it feel like crawling in a pungent sewer

craving to see the light of day and the smell

of freshly mown grass

or like hesitantly pressing pause on your

favourite love song because you

simply don’t feel it anymore?

does falling out of love feel like

seeing clearly again, as if the fog has

suddenly dissipated, uncovering cruel reality

or does it feel like drowning in the same sea

you would once float endlessly in?

does it feel like swallowing ice cubes and 

feeling comfortably numb 

or falling to the ground in the middle of a marathon,

heart racing, lungs burning,

realizing you’re not meant for the long run?

do you simply wake up one morning, 

read the newspaper 

and decide to turn off the love switch

or does it take incessant effort

like maintaining a new year’s resolution

or breaking a bad habit?

because you seem to have

mastered the very skill

while i lie here, shackled to your love

wondering,

were you even really in love

if you can simply fall out of it?

.

.

You are in more ways than one, a silver chain. Your arms strong; cold steel-like shackles to grip me my soul, lest it will float away in the sea of sinners. Because you like the hardest steel, have let your soul through the blazing purgatory fire and now you hold me captive between the clenching of your teeth, hoping to now liberate me from my sins.

So I lie their solitary, stripped and stationary on the floor of your marble eyes and stare into the granite orb in between, hoping they’ll suck me into their dark, inviting abyss. And yes, I crave to plummet down that black hole because although I am afraid of heights, I am terrified of selling my soul to rust. So I lie here still, fantasizing about my free fall because as long as I am free to spread my arms about, I will swallow my fear and make snow angels in the air until I fall down into the water in your eyes.

the mirror is an old enemy

that she winces at the sight of it,

at the sight of what it presents

she tells me that

the words of another have haunted her

but i say,

not enough to silence her

she does not speak, 

she roars, she thunders as

her hands conjure a miracle 

with the colours inside of her

spilling out,

cascading down her being.

they say,

she’s the best thing that

ever happened to them

but she tells me

that she’s always been alone

but a tigress roams

not in a pack, but lone

more powerful than the rest

and so are you,

i want to tell her

the wild cats with

the battle scars 

like they claim to be

i will be a riot, a 

revolutionary assemblage of

bleeding words that smell of

frayed wings and hallowed dreams

i will be a poem about a forbidden love

and carry within the margins of my being

sweet, dripping secrecy

i will be a tale of revolt against the

blatant injustice of society

my voice raised high, my syllables

dancing in the wake of

graceful mutiny.

i will be a story of revenge,

my words blazing with fury for

the miscreants who have wronged me.

mine, she whispers, will be a poem of power

an ode to the suffering and the sacrifices made

the words written in blood red

freshly supplied from my veins

for my body is a battlefield,

with my mind fighting with itself.

i will be complex and beautiful,

an entangled mass of words

at its poetic supremacy,

the epitome of art,

entwined syllables forever locked up

in each other’s embrace.

if everyone is a poem, she whispers silently,

i want to be the one that you spend

the rest of your life deciphering,

an intoxicating opium of words,

and the very last one that you read.

.

he asks me

i say, in the crevices of 

my bones, the spaces in my soul

that still smell of moss;

the bed of my nails

which is a grave for

rotting petals and disdain

for the ones who have wronged

and the ones who have attained 

what i wished to grasp

it hurts where the waistband

of my underwear

touches my skin, an eternal

reminder of the feel of 

foreign mouths that have

occasionally, during their travels,

wandered there.

it stings, i say, where my arms

conjoin with my neck

i call it Atlas, for on it rests

the burden of an unholy planet.

it burns, i wince, where countless

needles have threaded my heart

in hopes to stitch it back

to mediocre functioning,

where the blood sometimes

spurts out in excess and at other times,

leaves it as dead as a desert.

it hurts at the junction of

my mind, body and soul,

the meeting points of my 

being that make me whole

but alas it has been shredded 

by calloused syllables and 

overused leather belts

over the years and i

am so very used to this

perpetual pain that

tomorrow, even if i see

the cure, i will turn away,

calling it venom.

.