Blood-clot

I was buried up to my throat

The linings blanketed by flies each morning

as I stared at my own inky reflection

a shock of blonde and nude, pale lips

cuts and scrapes pressed against slivers of flesh and I contemplated ever returning to what once was home

Black nail polish always chipped like the wood upon your door

my khol was mixed with bruises, cat eyes

Smeared with blood

I stocked up on hate like it was gin;

it shared the same bitter aftertaste —

glass shards stuck to clotted berries, fingers hard enough to bruise

you called yourself comfort that I clung to so life was not as bleak

And I could pretend to sing

on key and relish in the smell of sex

these days, coming home

is not as hard as it once was

If anything, my blood

is finally starting to clot

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Scentless Adolescence

I wasn’t jealous of you because we had never met

under a kissed starry sky littered with Nazi propaganda

and upholding the fascist regime that oppressed the English working class

while you read me sonnets that mouth Plath’s prose

and your mouth came up spitting cornflower blue and monoxide oven gaze,

the same smell that coated your hands, but yours weren’t blushed with red berries, were they?

I remember that you asked me, would I write to you if you were in the heavy throes of war

and I answered so softly that you wouldn’t dare risk a breath

my eyes were veiled and I couldn’t remember what I said, yes or no

I suppose I said both, you would have been fine either way,

because you knew as well as I did that we’d never get that far,

neither of us would live that long but it didn’t matter

what matters is that you were still fingerfucking me underneath a surface as gaudy as roses

twice as hard and kissing the thorns on my skin so I crawled back into it,

you hadn’t brushed your hair and your black nail polish was chipped,

but when you’re raised on a diet of opium and smelling twice as good

you learn to adjust yourself so you’re spitting poison and cramming broken glass down the throats of wannabe rockers and feminists that say they’re “just striving for equality”

but what does equality mean when you’re crashing in all the hearts of men who just want to provide for their families and walk the streets without being branded by strangers?

you used to tell me that you were one of them and I laughed in your face, dripping ink on each pillow and broken glass was strewn around the mattress –

these days, I appreciate honesty a little more than I used to.

Madness Comes With Colour

He sat with his forehead pressed against the window and stared out into the rain.

From this angle and up this close, he could still see Emma, her milky skin wrapped in pale cotton garments, swaying her hips as the dewy pearls decorated her bare arms. Her limbs rustled in the wind, and briefly he wondered what she was doing here, at this time of day, not even daring to step foot into the building to see him.

Instead, she watched him watching her, the straps of her bra torn, skin trembling from the cold despite the weather. He’d told her to pack a jumper the next time she wanted to visit him. She didn’t listen – she never listened to a word he said.

Memory, that elusive word, trickled towards him as if from a Thorazine drip. He couldn’t place every detail (possibly because of the drugs, his fever, his whole rotten forgetfulness) but this time, it brushed past his consciousness with a silver wink. Emma had cranberry stripes that trickled down her inner arms in all sorts of candy colours, but they’d taken everything sharp she owned off of her. How she could achieve such … interesting laceration, yet be completely free of nerve damage, always fascinated him. (“Well, no shit I could,” she explained with a cheeky wink. “I’ve always been an outstanding individual.”)

Are .. are you okay?” the nurse, Sylvia, asked. She stood at the doorway entrance, fixing him with a concerned, if slightly disturbed, stare.

He blinked solemnly at her, vaguely aware of how he must appear. A black nest of hair fluffed around his head, enlongenated wisps protruding from random areas. Bruises bordered each eye, adding to the effect. “Um, yeah.” Deftly, he shook his lank hair out of his face. “I’m just … yeah.” He didn’t think he needed to voice the fact that he thought he was seeing things.

Sylvia considered him with a pitiful, yet slightly disturbed, glance. “Well, okay. I called the doctor. Your usual dose of Diazepam has been upped. That’ll help you relax more. Take them in between lapses.”

He eyed her distrustfully. “I know. I have been.”

Sylvia made a consious effort to keep up the fearful stare. “Good. You’ve done well since your last stay here. I’m sure you’ll do well when you’re discharged.”

He nodded, his eyes bright with a morbid wonder. His lips had thinned against his teeth in thought as he considered her via the sunlight splattered on the window. “Thanks. I’m sure I will, too.”

Update: I’m Writing a Novel

Hey, everyone. Chapter one of my novel has been a wild ride so far, but I’m getting through it. The novel tells the story of a young criminal psychologist and her increasingly disturbed worldview the more she interacts with her chosen field. Bit of a stretch but I’m liking the plot so far. Also, sorry about the long wait. No sooner do I make a plan to update than life gets in the way, for sure. I hope the length of the previous posts has made up for it, as well as this tidbit regarding my novel. The images of (some) the first chapter are below. I love you all, and I’ll see you in the next post!

– Cherry 🍒

 

At A Cemetery in Great Britain

I watched you press flowers for the dead into the folds of your flesh

as if this could somehow help you forget them

you were safe in the knowledge that a sparse graveyard told no secrets and howled your misery for all the ghosts to hear

feathery lips, your hair is a mess, ebony-powdered and covered with stardust

you always were clumsier during the day and the wraiths you lust after ogle you something dark

bloodstained shirt fronts and woven grief — plastered so well with broken eyes and black teeth

when you should never have slit them open with your disturbances

before you, silence was unbroken, and if I recall correctly you had a mouthful of blood to give as a gift

distinctly you remember where we bore into each other, your lips was bleeding heavily & I’d worked up a mouthful of spit

you were gentle & I didn’t expect that

you folded equal parts into me and wrought my ghost upon the gravestone floor in the form of dropping mercury & hungry gasps

you don’t know this, but that was my first — I was a virgin in spirit before you & you would have believed otherwise

once I got fingerfucked by an angel in black leather, he didn’t dance like you do

I guess that still makes me pure

what i think when i drink

ever since my hospital stay when the wind melted to a shriek and it was swollen with rain

I have always turned your words over like the sour insides of a citrus pip —

if only so i never again came up sweaty and covered with rind

and I’d rather feel the sticky pearl of a razor blade than false mercury comforts whispered deep within my ears

for minds as young as these are still floury dough, where common sense need not rise and the oven never gets cleaned

and sometimes when cracked mirrors whisper to me, I remember the time I swore blind that glass shards made short work of my anatomy and i got head from a blowtorch because that’s how it feels to look sometimes

with melted threads the same consistency as butter, and do i feel worms breeding in my mouth?

I remember staring at five-thirty A.M eyes burning at a chalky ceiling and wishing wanting dreaming to be exactly like Harley Quinn,

brain swollen with electro shock and chucked out of windows this actually happened, oblivious to the sneering spittle spat by snakes to let her slither back into his hole

he does it too well, you see

you would think violence is never the answer but masochists and sadists work deliciously well together

honey, it’s potent liquid — and when sloshed into froth, that’s when you get the really good stuff

and she bores her gaze into him and it’s wildfire, real black December shit

superstitions need not apply

and still she rocks shut like a clam as he collects the shells still clung to her and they come away red

he still refuses to give her beeswax kisses

because he’s dug too far into the ground to remember what honey even looks like

but she insists he can — he just has a little trouble stirring the pot

the same bullshit that dribbles across my insides like tapwater and spills over in hungry gusts of wind,

and even Plath could never weave a sentence spat from ink blots and black curtains to drape over my shoulders properly

when everything I own fits on two opposite extremes

(I never did tuck snugly into a label)

and one seems more ridiculous than the other, does every aspect of me need to be analysed?

something’s got to be broken so you have to fix it, but what if it’s not that easy,

and didn’t Shakespeare once say the world’s a stage?

I’ve always been fond of him, not in the biblical sense but fond still

waspish they call me, and if I am waspish you’d best beware my sting

all yellow-and-black edges ready to poke and stab in the dark, the sharp barb to put out a claw and change into something else (the perfect little woman)

although I’ve never identified with any one label at all — a distorted political tool, and doesn’t everyone reject notions about themselves that are so plainly obvious?

oh world what have you done you’ve allowed humanity to piss all over you, and what a crime it is

humanity, you should be ashamed of yourself with singed hair’s entwined, looped through playful balls of string, of cock and misty vagina not fit enough for breeding but let’s do it anyway

it occurs to me that I am humanity

Fuck I’m talking to myself aren’t I

group chats with myself

would you love me, want me, if I was not swathed in bubble wrap

they say it’s not suicide if you’re already dying so baby what’s one more slither going to do

you told me we were done with all that tacky shit, this pretending that our collarbones weren’t bruised when I left my bootlaces frayed at the ends

and here i am with a hazy head — allowing your white wine grin pull me to sleep when in reality I’ll be foggy at twelve tomorrow

but not drunk on peach schnapps, just the buttermilk sallow of a goth girl’s dress — who i call my friend even though in the dying months friend seems too alien a language to use for you, feels too softly spread, too bland

and all because you squeezed my thighs to distract from the nettle stings you received from your parents

and when he’s sorry for what he did to her, then I’ll think about being nice

i just can’t afford to think that way right now, not when bottle shards still spell his name and salt still glistens off his flesh

but he wonders why we don’t speak

he’s a scared little boy on the inside with more cock than brains and not even that because grass stains and muffled moans don’t equal pleasure and you think you can just roll off like that, blood dripping down your chin it is three A.M and you’re off somewhere measuring your dick size as if period blood and pills could somehow lengthen it,

that’s why we don’t speak, hon, you’re a FUCKING IDIOT