Monday, 21 March 2011



I need something to make the breath come back.
The stories are so real
and so filled with what I dread.
She’s dead.

I’m always crying.
Crying and screaming. The kind which renders you broken and breathless
Paralysed and preternaturally inclined to

I die often and I like to watch.
I have no choice but if I pretend that I’m in control
It isn’t as

Where do these things come from?
The capacity for reality within reality,
For the cerebral sponge to conjure
Is appalling.
And miraculous.

May the day come when the blood trickles down
And the secrets are visible, delicious rich sediment
Of an appalling and delicious food.

© Holly Boyden 2011

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