Faking it…

Sometimes I feel like I’m faking it, that I’m so numb from the constant barrage of red zones I know he cannot help, that when things are ok the feeling of longing & love is just pretend, just a feeling I have to make myself feel, apart from nothing, because I do love him, more than anything or I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t stay, wouldn’t want to help him.  I feel sometimes its hard to switch these emotions, hard to get out of the waiting for an explosion, take it to the chest, ignore the words he shouts mind set and get into the he’s my husband, he loves me, lets be lovers mindset, like I have to put it on, put on a feeling of passion and longing, but really I’m guarded, hurt, remembering the words he flings in anger, twat, cunt, bitch, seeing the hate in his flat black eyes, waiting for it to happen over and over again.

I think I’m numb, numb and faking it.

Or is that just marriage anyway?

 

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Flirting with fire…

A flame creeps at the edges, stoking its felicitous fingers into your safe & secure world.

It has shape, a shape you know.

You’re entranced by its passion as it licks, slow & intense.

Tracing the edges of shadows as it tries to sweep across your being.

Its trying to ignites a spark that can burn your world, you must not let it catch.

Scars still tight & thin, you’d snuffed it out, extinguished it before, seen it die, go cold.  Relief and sadness.

Ignore the flickering, the desire to touch the flame, to run your fingers through it, to feel the intensity, the pleasures, the pain.

it will all end in ashes..

Mother…colours.

I will always remember the colour of your ears. Thinking how quickly the blood had turned thick & pooled, dark and still, trapped in this bits of your body where it stayed after you heart stopped. Viscous, oozing, moving slowly, only with gravity, to the areas lowermost in your body as you lay supine, a blanket up to your chest, the sticky pads of the defibrillator still attached to your skin just visible under the edge of the satin lined cream wool. Your highest features already a waxy yellow, your nose, your forehead, your chin, your chest, making you look like a waxwork dummy. The dark blood hanging in your ears & lobes. I remember thinking on how wrong they get it films & TV. How can they get the colours all so wrong? Why do they lie? When you’re dead, even just an hour after, you turn a horrible fatty yellow and aubergine purple where the blood is draining & gathering and congealing. Rothkoesque, clashing colours, the colours of death on this still canvas, only possible with a stillness that will come to us all.
No one tells you this, I guess youre never meant to know the colours you go….Muma

See Saw..

I gave up food and took up cigarettes. I got thin.
I gave up cigarettes and took up crisps. I gained weight.
I gave up crisps and took up cheese. I gained more weight.
To give up cheese can I take up cigarettes again?

Sheeple…

Wandering like undead sheep into the abyss,
The only clouds dark, unlined,
People happily fall, unaware of their actions, thoughts, consequences.
No yellow hosts of triumphant beauty welcome them there.
No stars will shine to guide the way, just highly polished pieces of faeces rolled in glitter,
Pretending to be stars,
Pretending to be something they are not,
Toxic shiny plastic squares fall away as they dance with you.
Polluting the vacuous souls
No bliss, no solitude, no pensive mood,
You’re just left with the stains they leave,
Stains that don’t come out..

Seeds..

Hes planting seeds, 

I find this troubling.

These seeds are for creepers,

Creepers with thorns, 

thorns that rip & tear.

They grow so fast, too fast to tame.

They choke & block,

Replacing truth with barbs.

Warden or wife?

Am I his warden or his wife?

His carer or his spouse?

His keeper or his friend?

Half of these things I don’t want to be…….

All of these things are difficult,

all need to be worked at,

all need strength.

Im afraid Im too weak..