#darkpoetry

Bone fingers

sinking into my ankle—

a small, private pain

I carry like a ghost.

And today again,

I listen to the wind,

its voice

too close

to be alive.

骨の指

わが足首に喰ひ込むを

感じつ今日も

風の音聞く

Does this darkness speak to you.

You call out and I repeat back,

I will never speak first,

I am only a duplicate.

A copy of another's existence.

You scream,

I scream back,

but mine is quieter,

distorted and cracked.

I suppose it makes sense.

When I’m just the echo,

of someone else's semblance.

You ask who's there?

but I just repeat the question back.

I have no answer,

a self is the thing I lack.

I am nothing but a repetition.

Less than an apparition,

more insubstantial than air,

and less meaningful than bare space.

You are getting further away,

it's getting difficult to repeat what you say.

What happens when you leave? 

Will I die?

I am a fading echo,

as your footsteps recede.

I was an echo,

that was all I could be.

I lie deathly still as your hands shred skin,

ripping out my organs,

dismantling me from within.

I’m like a jack-o-lantern,

guts spilled all over the place.

Yet still keeping a carved grin on my face.

You reach deeper and deeper,

up into my brain,

tearing apart tissue,

and discarding my remains.

I do not run.

I make your job easier,

I would never dare stop you,

as your claws scratch my bone.

You pull out my veins,

snapping tendons and ligaments.

I don’t make a sound,

as you begin to crawl inside,

and really root around.

You repair my skin with my own hands.

You walk outside and greet the world,

No—wait, it is me.

It must be.

But I have not moved,

I’ve lost my key.

So I watch through my retina,

my window to it all.

You’ve taken control,

pushing my muscles,

and grinding my jaw.

I cannot stop you,

I’m trapped inside.

My body, my prison.

A hostage in my own mind.

Non è un contatto.

È una risonanza.

È sentirsi nel cuore, là dove ogni battito custodisce un segreto condiviso.

È sentirsi nell'anima, come un'impronta lasciata sull'acqua, capace di restare anche quando la superficie non si increspa.

È una presenza costante che non ha bisogno della vicinanza fisica, perché vive nello spazio silenzioso tra un pensiero e l'altro.

Un'essenza che permane, anche quando il mondo intorno svanisce, lasciando soltanto il riflesso di ciò che, forse, eravamo destinati a trovare.

Darkness is a fickle thing. It eats you alive, clips your wings, then hides the vilest parts of you.

So cruel, and yet so kind: it steals your sight, it frays your mind, then blankets you and holds you close, whispering that you matter most.

Darkness devours all in its path, suffocates you with its ruin and wrath. Darkness is cruel, and darkness is kind— Darkness will remain undefined.

I wish for someone, anyone,

who loves me as I love.

I'm never first, never enough,

never thought highly of.

I can't anymore, I try

not to give so much, I'm sorry.

But I can't stop, I never could —

it's always been my story.

I know you said you'll never match

the love I've given away.

I've poured it into so many hands,

only to be betrayed.

I sit here wrapped in my bedsheets,

wondering why I try.

I should appreciate your warning,

but I can't help but cry.

What have I done?

What divine punishment is this?

That the love I give and desperately crave

simply does not exist.