Dwelling on my own insignificance
And submerging myself in the power of inexhaustible self-pity
A spasmodic conversion rips tautly across my chest
Activating lesions I thought were no longer fresh
I crave love like an alcoholic her liquid drug
And too I try to give up this obnoxious compulsion for normalcy
Because the stroke of charred varnish on the brush of my insanity
Extends far too broadly and awakes all so suddenly
When the bane gurgles up through my veins
I feel vacuous at times
And consider if anything will ever fill this desolate quietude within
Tears well up when I remember my own woeful proclivities
And my breast sears open in desolate misery
Why am I horror-struck by half of humanity?
Those jerks had me acting out as an hysterical succubus
Until I was diagnosed as certifiably deranged
Which I tried to forget with my half-yearly bout of amnesia
But instead spiralled deeper into infirmity and acroamatic rape
Can I be delivered? Am I deserving of this life?
Some mournful remnant weeps within
And clenches my internal organs tight
Hoping that if clenched hard enough
No longer will remain the disenchantment of being alive
This is a silent siren of sorrow
Of a young girl maltreated, ostracised, and forsaken
Yet used to it all the same
I’m sorry for the distress I put you through little one
For the suffering of this affliction
This time not physical as a blade that scarred my wrists, hips, and thighs
But instead a total disembodiment of my own self
I’m sure I deceased that night
Or maybe I was already slain
Who can blame that tormented toddler after being projected to the depths of the underworld
In despair and barbarism at the hands of unimaginably vile creatures
Fuck that son of a bitch for what he did
Fuck his existence, fuck his face
May he putrefy and decay in disgrace
This enmity inside is just an endless war to emancipate my voice
To be relieved, to be released
Even when the social worker visited at the tender age of eight
With my eye black and bruised
And welts on my back
Sound was yet not heard
And at twelve when I tried to forewarn the pompous pastor of being nothing more than a child-slave
I was forced to face a vacant wall for weeks on end with hands held ceaselessly upon my head
Oh how my arms weighed
They became insensate
And love was never present
Neither at home nor outside its walls
Despite simplistic narcissistic illusion
Sequestered and forlorn as I was within those four walls
With hands around my neck for wanting to see an insensible male friend
Well, who can blame me for feeling like my very existence is a harrowing affliction to all whom pass me by?
It never goes away
I just learn to live with the debilitating and dishonourable disdain
When will I procure respite?
When will life let up on this foul misfortune?
Was I Jack the Ripper in another aeon?
Am I making up for trespasses long gone?
Or is this just disastrous fate?
How did I offend the gods so?
I want to gather the fractures of myself and affix them anew
With gleaming gold epoxy as in that Japanese adage
And maybe one day my scars will be more precious for it
But sometimes all I feel is the deadly expanse between the porcelain truths
Negative images of a future that no longer subsists
And who knows if this is the only variant of me that is
Goddess I pray so, because the aberrant recourse presses against me from all sides
Has the cosmos really given up on me?
Prithee, I petition for a token, for confidence and a piety I never once felt
Let me anticipate again, even though I am near now self-erased
May my affection feel again
Shielded, insulated, impregnable
Without fright nor strain
The excruciating egg shells lie scattered now far beyond the shadows
Still their dusty remains harrow deep within the soles of my feet
And disturb me every time I take a step forward with a weary wheeze
Will you come and sup this tainted breath out my lungs with a reverent tongue?
Is there really hope? So long have I been dragged through mud and mire;
I am necessitous for repose of my cynical soul
So, pray, let it be.
It must be.