he is made of winter

the bed feels cold.

the lack of you lingers in the sheets
and in my ribcage. a laugh
gets caught before it leaves my lips
because
you were never here.

it would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic;
if i wasn’t so pathetic and lonesome and heavy and draining and filthy.
i am filthy with thoughts of you.
your fingerprints mark my body,
you’ve claimed me as your own
but the bed is still cold.

the timbre of your voice
sits on my spine and
lays waste to this body of mine
when it falls
too
d
    e
       e
          p

i’d rather be alone
than be alone with that voice.
so just slice me where you would kiss me; bleed me dry;
hang my soul on a blossoming tree
and leave me in the sun
because the bed is too cold
and i am frozen.

old dolls and talking angels

i remember writing about
ragdolls, dusty shelves and blackened nails…

she looked at me, her eyes sagging/
sinking into a hole i had clawed
child size ditch-
ed my soul
for wanting more
clung onto the soft mounds of my body
(left with what i hated, i’d
left what i had loved)

hope is murderous.
like a sadist slicing into your jugular
whilst curling your hair,
hope binds you to your bones
and promises you freedom.

i was the ragdoll left dirty on the shelf/
the shell left hollow in the dirt/
a body with blackened nails
and remnants of unfinished burials

but she held me together;
my soul in her palm,
pink pearls round her neck,
she spoke in Dreams and said,
‘there is no soul without hope,
just hearts weighed down by
ropes of fear.
just let it go and you’ll find your home.’

i am the ragdoll left on the shelf;
just a little less dusty and
more hopeful than haggard.