these whispered blushes.
Above them sits one jewel
in the traverse
of my brow’s flesh –
a stream of teardrops,
permanently nestle
in the body of my face –
they remind me of the child
caught crying
in ink black darkness
where the silver shadows
of pale moons would try to invade
her solemnity –
Occasionally,
we would dance
a reflection; swooning and
dipping, dodging emptiness,
faded scars and the morass
of past pain, redacted,
and the remains left to degrade.
Calm, moon chalk
expressions would beat down
in rhythmic shadows on my chest,
imposing stoic interruptions
where my stolid heart should be;
still at press pause, afraid of my
its heartbeat, of my organs,
of mnemonic patterns –
countless disjointed
memories have scattered,
fluttering endlessly like crazed
butterflies –
out of control
in chasms of grey, fleshy matter
where pretty cacti run my veins –
flower buds, seldom seen,
are happy there
forcing blood, forcing life.
I bang on the mirror…
until cracks fill with my blood –
like grime and dirt,
the pain of my disease
is ingrained –
it cannot be wiped away –
so my reflection oscillates.
I roll my cheeks one at a time;
offering warm flesh pressed hard
against cold glass –
my orange painted lips linger,
to mouth a prayer –
‘let my bones break
so that I might heal.’
I resolve one day to stop this
dance of attrition – and smear on
the neon, shop bought face mask,
swapping sorrows for sin,
and wade out from the steamy mire –
memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –
for a little while
at least.
Cold cupped hands beat
the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine
is still smothered in shade –
ashen faced, I am inside the mirror,
but at least, I am whole.
As it Comes 