The Contortionist

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Image courtesy of: Megan Missfit

one day,
the contortionist says
she does not want to be looked at
any longer.

she begs and prays
for someone to lead her
off the stage
only to realise
her ego wilts
without the warmth of a spotlight
and showers of applause.

poor little flower
she still nurtures
scraps of pain from childhood
that root her insatiable desires
to be loved widely and deeply
in crimson shades of impossibility
that a singular he
could not hope to
ever be.

and so she,
tarnished thorns and famished leaves,
returns to the freaks and rejects
re-paints her mask
and twists her feelings
into familiar almost-disasters
and the crowd cheers
(like the old days)
(like always)
but they nor happiness ever stay.

who knows
when she’ll realise
false nourishment
does not sustain life
and it was never about the circus
or him (nor him nor him)
but her?

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humble wordlings

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to fellow humble wordlings:
I see you.

all paper skin
and glass bones,
directionless,
trying to find home,
do not give up
just yet.

join me
in the search for solace
in tomorrow’s sunlight.
let us
reel in untethered minds
and remind ourselves that
we are seperate
from shadows of the past
and that there is always something more
to look forwards to.


“being bodies that learn language thereby becoming wordings, humans are the symbol-making, symbol-using, symbol-misusing animal, inventor of the negative, separated from our natural condition by instruments of our own making, goaded by the spirit of hierarchy acquiring foreknowledge of death and rotten with perfection.” – Kenneth Burke on what it is to be human