Mother, I'm Bleeding

I knew that it happened

But I thought, not to me

It couldn't be inevitable

What kind of fucked up world would that be?

Come one summer afternoon

I tried so hard to hide from me

Thinking this can't be real, oh god, I'm dreaming

What kind of fucked up world would that be?

But Mother, I'm bleeding

Could I lose so much and still be breathing

Mother, I'm bleeding

I tried not to look but I'm still seeing

That Mother, I'm bleeding

I feel so cold, I could be dying

Mother, I'm bleeding

Mother, should I be crying?

Mother, am I the only one?

Can I bleed like this if I'm your son?

Oh God, Mother, I'm still bleeding

I'd read about it somewhere

But I thought, it couldn't be

If I should turn to razor blades

What kind of fucked up world would that be?

But come one winter evening

I took everything out on me

Thinking, Mother, I could never tell you

What kind of fucked up world would that be?

But Mother, I'm bleeding

If you see the scars will you still love me?

Mother, I'm bleeding

Do you see the sword and thread above me?

Mother, I'm bleeding

Just one more orifice to turn me red

Mother, should I be dead?

Mother, are you listening at all?

Mother, could you catch me if I fall?

Oh God, Mother, I'm still bleeding

Words Unspoken

If I cannot speak, the words in my head will run around in circles until they wear themselves out and stumble out my ears, oozing dejectedly down the sides of my face.

They will be invisible, but I will feel them as they trickle down my neck and drip, getting all over my hands.

I will panic and spill my coffee, sending it flying all over my hands, and the words will scream at me, accusatory, infuriated that I could not speak and spare them this scalding over-caffeinated death.

Their tiny corpses will drip with the coffee to the floor.

I will rest a little easier knowing they are not still in my head.

Cigarette

I was your cigarette.
You put a match to me and let me smolder.
Breathing me in, taking me into your lungs and bloodstream
Then out again, and with every breath you changed.
You smoked me down to the filter
Then tossed me to the sidewalk, to sputter into ashes.

Picture

Four walls of white
They seem barren as the eyes of a young woman widowed by war
And every bit as cold,
Despite bright-eyed smiling photographs.
There are no pictures of me on these walls,
Just a strange little girl
Who maybe reminds them of me,
If they look her in the eyes

Two eyes of blue, in the picture
The flesh around them is crumpled
From the forced smile.
She looks like her skin doesn't fit
And I wonder
What will become of her.

The I remember
Within these walls of white she sits
Though she left long ago
Leaving only this picture
To remind them.

Droppped It

I let you hold my heart in your hands
It sat still, almost placid
Content to repose on your palm
And then you dropped it.
And then you dropped it.

I took it out very carefully
Untangling all my veins and draping them across your fingers
Not allowing it to pulse too fiercely
And then you dropped it.
And then you dropped it.

It was quite tame
And merely sat and smiled
Sanguine and trusting
And then you dropped it.
And then you dropped it.

I let you hold my heart in your hands
And then you dropped it.

Butterfly

A passing butterfly.

Soon it will be crushed by the cloying fingers of time,
Disintegrated into the mists of indifferent memory.
It will pass, as even now it flutters out of reach,
Beyond the lovelorn caress of human eyes.
Soon the embrace of winter will sweep it away,
To bleed its gentle colours into ice.

Still for this moment it is beautiful,
Even innocent, bright fingerpaint colours
Soft against the fading summer sky.

Tragedy lies in the belief that butterflies can last forever.