This doesn’t have
A lot of metaphor, or simile,
Or writing techniques, or style,
Or rhyming structure, or metre;
To be honest it’s barely a poem,
and that’s fine because I’m barely
a poet.
To be honest, I’m a mess.
Mental health in decline,
Pretending to be fine,
Being confined,
Just reclined
On this sofa.
Where the cushions, the blanket, the duvet, the laundry, and emotions accumulate and
lie across my chest like a
heavy
warm
comfortable
something.
© Emilie C. Black, Apr 2020
4am hurts like
blunted knives in your ribcage
cold fire in your veins
and crushed glass in your skin.
4am hurts like your ex.
Your heart and body aches
for reasons you don’t understand,
curled around yourself and convulsing
cursing and breath,
Fists closed, arms crossed, jaw clenched
to protest and protect;
Every breath, every moment
feeling like hard time and hard labour.
Dull pain and panic burrow and settle
and scuttle and gnaw
like unwanted mice nestling
in your chest
Your body and soul is a punch bag
propped up against a worn out mattress
left out in the rain
ready for landfill.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
Were you expecting me to say
Something more fitting,
More form fitting,
Something more pretty?
Or would you rather I said
I was wearing a shirt and tie so
You can fetishize my school uniform
To try and justify his actions
And make the victim him and not me?
Were you hoping I would say
I was wearing nothing but
My sexuality on my sleeve
And leggings so you could say
“They were practically begging”
And then pin the blame on me?
Then go on to say that I was
“Preying on his fragile masculinity”
Twisting the situation and implying
That the problem was me?
Because the truth is
I wasn’t wearing anything that would
Let you dress consent as a foregone privilege
Instead of a basic right.
And the only reason his
Arms and ego are bruised is because
I tried to fight back and tried not to
Not let it happen but I was
Too frightened and pinned down
With brute force and fear.
I still feel his hand
Over my mouth,
Forcing my screams
To back down my throat.
I am forced to wear scars
Carved by his nails and I’m
Stained with bruises that
No shower can wash away and
No knife or razor can cut out.
And I’ve tried.
No noose or antidepressant
Can change the way that
I have been changed.
And if you think,
If you believe,
That I would ask for this,
For my life to be hollowed out,
For my body to be mutilated to the point
I don’t recognise my reflection,
Then you are just as much to blame as him.
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt,
Now they’re stained, tattered and torn
And strewn amongst the shreds of
My dignity and innocence and
Shards of shattered dreams that
Have given way to nightmares that
Don’t let me sleep
And broken-record memories
That play over and over and over,
That remind me the victim was me.
How can you complain about choking
When you are slowly suffocating me
With these dietary restrictions?
When we met, I thought it was feta
But I cheddar known better.
It’s not an addiction,
I could give it up anytime I want,
I just don’t want to.
But you seem determined to milk this for all it’s worth,
And it’s grating on me that you’d put your needs first.
You’re not the first person to complain,
My father was just as intolerant as you,
When he took away my cheese, I thought “how dairy”.
It was for my own Gouda and would change the condition
Of my allegedly toxic and deadly emissions.
I thought you’d have sympathy and kindness
But it appears you lactose and
Now we are at an impasse because
You won’t compromise because you can’t
See my emotions and needs on another level.
They don’t get pasteurise.
Question from Sarah M. from Facebook
I am sick,
I am sick of being sick.
It’s been six or seven years of
Things being in a constant state of wrong
With my brain and my body and
Being used as a punching bag by bugs and infections,
Leaving bruises, scars and lesions and being beaten
Black, blue and bloody by my immune system
And I am sick of it.
I spent seventeen years in education
Yet my blood, brain and urine
Have been through more tests than me.
And they don’t get it easy because
There’s no pass or fail,
Just sets of numbers I don’t understand
And positives that can have negative connotations
And negatives which could be the best thing for me.
I’ve spent the last five years,
Going in and out of doctors and hospitals
Leaving barely enough time for the revolving doors to spin,
Travelling between wards and beds like
Hotel rooms on the worst overnight stay of my life,
Never staying still long enough to sleep
Or see the latest test result.
I’m treated like a science experiment,
Laid bare for doctors and nurses to test
Both myself and themselves.
I feel like a broken vending machine,
With pills being poured into my mouth
Like pound coins of imprecision
By professionals who can only pray for
The right result.
I’ve spent far too long
Being a rebel crying out for change
Being told that my version of better isn’t the best thing for me,
I’m sick of waiting for eventually and tomorrow and the next day,
I’m sick of wasting my life away in
A busy hospital terminal, waiting for my
Flight number to be up.
Question from my good friend, Courtney.
It was the calm after a
Torrential downpour of depression
Which washed away my sensibilities.
It was after the storm in my head
Subsided into the choked whispers
Of voices who would leave me high and dry.
Nothing leading up to the moment was peaceful,
My body and brain fighting tooth and nail,
Fighting my will to not fight anymore,
My breath becoming a shallow imitation and
Turning into a desperate rasp,
My pulse frenetic and thrashing like a shark in a cage
Filled with a rage that fills it with a desire to survive.
Until the noose buckled.
And I crashed down with the weight
Of myself and the world
In slow motion.
A dark euphoria of
Pins and needles crawling like
Electric insects through my veins,
Tingling and tearing through my body.
My ears ringing like
The the sound of a thousand flatlines,
Loud enough to drown out the world.
In this moment,
There was no guiding light,
There was no distraction.
Just calm,
Just darkness,
Just perfect quiet.
Just reminders that
I am alive.
Question from Delaney A. from Facebook
Like a tidal wave against a stone wall and the shatter of glass,
Unheard prayers on rooftops and in churches and in desperation.
The roar of crumbling concrete as it dissolves to dust.
The crying of parents of lost, dead or dying children.
Trees being ripped apart like pieces of paper and then engulfed in flame.
The shriek of a baby as she starves and doesn’t know why or who to blame.
Like an army of ghosts with nothing left.
And then nothing.
Deafening nothing.
In a place where the sea meets the tears of disaffected dead
In a wasteland of rubble and scrap metal where the earth and the air is still.
And no one cries for help because they lost their voices to panic and pain.
Just the gentle lapping of waves of polluted water and rain.
Giving way to nothing
Hundreds of thousands of people are currently affected by Hurricane Irma and the aftermath. Please, if you can, support these people and the charities that are working to help these people. For more information on how you can help, click here for a list of the charity organisations that you can donate to and support.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though everything is gone
And I’m left with just mistakes and chronic emptiness.
Even though I’ve sold my soul and guitar
For the sake of pipe dreams and smoke and mirrors.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though I’ve wound up alone
Except for the ghosts of the voicemail machine.
Even though my life has been repossessed
And I’m now in receipt of income and life support.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though my skin is so weak and discoloured
That I can’t recognise my own ethnicity.
Even though I’m sweating ice cold bullets
And my eyes are leaking like warm battery acid.
I won’t lose my dignity,
Even though I’m bound to this hospital bed
Like I’m in an unpayable life debt.
Even though I can’t hold my head high
But I know I can rely on this mountain of pillows to do it for me.
I won’t lose my dignity.
I’ve already lost so much.
I’ve lost my money.
I’ve lost my friends.
I’ve lost my mind.
I’ve lost my weight.
I’ve lost myself.
I’ve lost my will to be an addict.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though my grip
Is barely strong enough to hold a needle
Even though I’m here by force,
It’s only because I’ve forced myself to do this.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Even though I probably could or should
Because it would just make sense.
I won’t lose my dignity.
Because I won’t let it go.
Because I refuse to lose the one thing that’s keeping me strong.
Today’s question comes from Jonathan Larson’s ‘RENT’
The heart keeps going,
Awake and wired like
A caffeinated child.
The heart rests
Takes a moment away from the race
And takes life at it’s own pace.
We don’t sleep when we sleep
Our brains don’t shut off,
Our heart keeps pumping blood,
Our lungs keep breathing
And maybe that’s why
We’re still tired in the morning.
Because rest is a lie and
Our bodies keep going.
We think we’re dead to the world
But we’ve never been more alive.
Our brain dreams,
Processing thoughts and actions
Like a machine,
Like a computer with the screen turned off,
Creating images and flickering lights,
Playing tricks on our minds and retinas like
A limited edition, one-of-a-kind movie
In a cinema screening that no one saw,
Except for a projectionist in a dark room.
And our heart is the soundtrack,
Heart strings and pulsing drum beats,
Slow and steady
But swelling to crescendo,
Racing to action
A veritable ventricle
drum and bass underscore,
Returning to legato then coming to rest.
And, like any true heart,
The protagonist in the story,
Arriving on dampened horseback,
Head- and heartstrong,
The knight in shining armour
Chasing nightmares and negative thoughts away,
Then riding into the sunset,
Reminding you to love yourself
Question from Amanda P. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 