… Clenched Like a Fist, She Spoke.
“There is nothing and everything wrong with me!
I am just hurt…all the way through and forever.
It would just take far too long to explain it.
It is intricate, complicated, a cluster-fuck of confusion
and you are all just strangers to me, anyway?
I am not going to self harm, God, the mere thought
is ridiculous, it is bad enough living through this
right now (If you can call this living?) without collecting
souvenirs and trinkets of it all along the horrible way.
I am definitely not going to kill myself, I am a Coward,
if only I was half that brave I would not be in this mess.
My soul is white knuckled and my heart’s teeth are grinding
through these endless waves of exquisite emotional pain.
I swore aloud to myself at exactly 4:37am this morning
in the bathroom mirror to try and find myself some relief
and I swear I nearly blinded myself with the onslaught
that I am barely containing and caging here inside.
My mind is road kill and that endless clock everywhere
keeps me prisoner in this sanatorium which I have
naively constructed out of my own traitorous flesh and bone!”
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk