Where are you now?

I don’t remember if these are the right words. I don’t know if they’ve ever been. Where are you? Where are you, pretty words, fractured soul. Where are you, the tiny voice whispers, so afraid, timid. The monsters are running wild again, can’t you see them, it whimpers. Where are you, fragments of feeling, fluttering in the wind of life. Were you ever there, were you ever something good, something real, substantial? Where are you now? I can’t find you and I can’t find the end, god I can’t find the end. I’m stuck inside myself that is not myself, the pretty porcelain mask is heavy, the girl in the mirror will out before too long, where are you now? So lost. The monsters are out and I am lost. God, this is all a jumble. I’m so very tired, fading, fading. Falling… where are you? Can’t find it, too much shadow, light, not mine, never mine.  spaces are shared, cobbled together, hobbling along the broken tile, mourning what is lost and what has never been. Am I dreaming this endlessness? These monsters? No, can’t be, they are too real. Yet it has to be a dream if you lose a soul because it is of air. Is it as silent as the sea I wonder? I hope not. Even a dying soul should keen to the sky, should burn, if only for a moment. I hope mine does, hope I have accomplished something, can’t find it, can’t find it. Where are you now?



All you know are Shadows

do you know what poisoned smiles are?

do you know what the color or feeling or sound is so big it would swallow you without a second thought?

do you know what it feels like to be ripped apart on the inside, not because you care, but because nothing and no one and no word is safe?

do you know who I am?

I do not say this out of entitlement,

nor of self-pity. I am where I am, proud of it, and of the fight I came through to find it.

NOR do I think my life is some great sorrow.

No, I speak out of terror, remembered and real mixing into a heady intoxication of horror that leaves me breathless, curled up on the floor, hands clenched around the voice I dare not use.

you see someone with wings unfurled as far as they will stretch; but I have not forgotten the cage I still remember how to enter, when needs must. it is not broken as easily as telling me where black and white are. for my soul is painted gray, and I am a master at the brush. all you know are shadows.


they start with my skin
slowly peel it off
in curls and bits and pieces.
I have more skin, it seems
than any other person
they have to eat a lot
to find me
little word fingers
little thought tongues
lapping at the blood of me
when the skin is parted
after the pink and grey of vulnerable is nibbled away
left among the bones
and bloated words
is a pulsing red poem
it cracks my ribcage
crawls fourth on run-on sentences

knits my flesh back together
with brisk efficiency
and breathes in a spark
My skin regrows
and it starts again.
I have more skin,
it seems
than any other person

The Hole the Prophets Made

this burning hole inside me is the thing the prophets made.

I use it now to hold the ashes of my faith, mislayed.

The healers tried to plant there, but they brought no fertile seed.

the worriers came calling, with their trite, sad things to read.

the mystics babbled in my ears, and said it was the truth;

and filled my head with images that took away my youth.

but all of them forgot that I’d a core made out of ash,

and I had lived a lifetime with an overflowing cash

of pain and memory gone wrong to fuel my sceptics soul.

I cannot look away, you see, from that great burning hole.


The dreamers are the tired souls

who hold the world aloft;

who fill the aching, messy holes,

and make the edges soft.

But dreams cannot a city build

without some bones of steal.

They only leave a glossy guild,

and little do they heal.

But still, they spread the dreams out thin,

although they know not why.

They do not know how to begin

ignoring our great cry.

So dreamers are the tired souls

who hold the world aloft;

who fill the aching, messy holes,

and make the edges soft.


I trace my shadows in the cracks between worlds,

When no one is awake to see.

“We are sad and afraid,” they say, and I feel it in my bones.

So I find the edges,

Tattered and familiar,

And trace them with reality and dream.

I write on them with everything I have.

Step on all the floorboards that overlap,

Universe to universe,

Life to life.

Each difference is a paintbrush;

A splash of feeling,

Or color,

Or sound.

I take my meager collection

And weave a quiet for them.

“Here,” I say.

“Come look and see. You don’t need to be sad anymore. Let’s tell a different story. Would you like a muffin?”

Sometimes, they listen.

Sometimes… most times…

My balancing act pulls through.

They still,

And eat,

And give me words.

But sometimes, they are too strong

Or I am too tired

Or there aren’t enough differences

Or pretty words

To hold the world up anymore.

So sometimes, I am a shadow,

Walking through the cracks between worlds.

Speak to me

If you speak in poetry, I will answer in kind.
If you speak in silence, I will fold you in it to tell my story and let you breathe me in.
If you speak in tears, I will reply with my eyes and the salt of my soul on my lips.
If you speak in touches, I will paint my all upon my skin and lightly caress your hand.
If you speak soft and gentle, I will blunt all the edges I can reach for you to hear me, even if they cut me open.
If you are afraid to speak, then I will sit very still and wait for you to find the words and will.
And if you cannot speak at all, I will seek to know you differently.
Any way you wish to speak to me, I will learn your language, even if it takes a thousand years.
For I would reach the unreachable, talk to those who never have a listener, wrap my arms about the falling and catch them where I can.
But little, painful little, I can do for those that bend and bind my tongue,
Less still for those who block their ears with voices of their own.
And this? This is the truth I cannot ever speak.