She is broken promises
piled up like plastic takeaway
containers. The bins stink
like hypocrisy and a million
dead fish screaming silently.
Excuses stain apologetic teeth in
shades of lost crimson, I suppose
sometimes the daysblendintonight
followed by another #094183 sunrise.
As green-eyed monster sinks deeper
into orange-pink sulci, she ferments
gram after gram of misdirected
resentment in saliva before swallowing
self whole. Become this dark,
bottomless hole – name it stomach
rather than mind or soul, convince herself
she can quantify abstract problems on
scale and in mirror, feed herself lie on top of lie until it hurts to swallow.
Forget how to hunger, watch young skin stretch
from feigned indifference to
burdensome vanity as weighed
heart learns to falter faster
than it flutters. At least that is
the sous-chef’s choice of the day.
On the cusp of 22, serve up
seasoned afflictions, boiled-down
spiked with low self-esteem,
no guarantee who tomorrow will be.
do you ever lose yourself
when the night breaks to day?
and sullen silence is stained by white noise
but the darkness remains, caught in the ridges
of your molars as you grind down life
into ingestible inches of time.
there’s these sticky, murky thoughts
stuck behind the tongue and you’re not sure
if they’re even yours, head pounding
from all the muddled drinks
and puddled tears, you feel your heart
ache for someone you have yet to meet
and might never know, maybe that’s
for the best because the ones that get close
tire of how you dwell over the same mistakes
day and day again, the wayward words
carried by the wind litter barren streets with bro-
ken signs, nobody bothers to listen.
too many already dance in our heads,
hallow skull but a crowded stage,
no space for new thought or moving on,
only screaming matches against ourselves,
stubborn anthems against unmovable fate,
I don’t know if I’m starting to lose voice
or mind, I think by the time both go,
it will time to close my eyes.
we are missing
and I no longer remember
where I misplaced us
perhaps our hearts
sunk to the bottom of the
Tasman sea when I moved
away from home?
I thought if I packed my bags
full of photos and love notes
I could make a scrapbook of
our story but I guess
scraps are just the meaningless
edges of what I clung onto
too tightly and torn too carelessly
and these tears cannot be mended
just wiped away.