The broken skin on the back of my knuckles is something you always notice;
It signals the sour dawn that encloses me in cloud.
In the beginning, I could hide it,
My drawn out suicide,
The first time was on a train.
I could flush it and bleach it and wear my bones with pride.
But it is so impossible now,
Your senses are as sharp as the stinging scent of bile
And you know before I do
That I’m at that private game again.
Being attacked by your own mind
Is never easy;
But it made me thin, ethereal, and dizzy with dysfunctionality.
I adored that emptiness;
My body hollow as the early hours before birdsong
And the hush of my vacant organs thrilled me.
Now the morning has shaken awake the feathery bundles of normality
They chiff and chatter;
I have had to grow up;
Accept that I
Am not organically delicate;
And that those two fingers
Cannot get rid of everything.
I have had to eat,
And face the world of heaviness that knows nothing
Of the enchantment of absence.
I am thick and dappled from what I swallow
And like a spoilt child,
I cry for my suffocated bones,
Those sunken precious stones
In a sea of flesh.