Sadness, My Lover

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I am always afraid to remain still
for I know this is where sadness
will find me, there, in that place
where shadows turn rain to moss.
But today I am tired, and indolence
reigns over my sapped resolution
and no longer do I outrun sadness.
I hear her footsteps quicken, they
echo in the hollowness of my heart
like gunfire upon a corrugated iron
roof and I am caught surrendered.
“Hello, old friend,” I say to her, and
she is weight and mass and density
and I pull her compression beneath
my skin and I am comforted by the
feeling of my bones being crushed.
“Welcome home,” I say to her, for
sadness and I are clandestine lovers,
souls of the night who run together
beneath canopies of faded dreams,
and she knows no matter how often
she leaves, I will always call her back,
and beg once more for her darkness
to come closer and embrace mine.

~ © Kathy Parker ~

Paper Cuts Upon Your Lips 

I long to be the solid thing your hands reach out to hold but I am made of nothing more than flimsy pages filled with all the words I will never say.

In the faded light your eyes try to read me and I wish my paper skin held blueprints of my heart so you would know how to put me back together and maybe then I would be more intact and your love would not bleed out from the open wounds others have left behind.

Because of you I am more than I have ever been but never what I could be and even my most will never feel enough when your touch falls upon empty rooms and vacant signs. 

Your mouth presses certainty on my skin but still the night is flippant and I am left to wonder how long before your kiss is drawn to a girl who doesn’t leave paper cuts upon your lips. 

Escape 

I trace coordinates on your skin

of all the places we will never go.

My fingers map the routes along

your veins and I imagine they are

open roads that lead us far away

from the inertia of this pedestrian

life that we tell ourselves is living.

My lips graze your collarbones;

I pretend they are beam bridges

that carry us beyond the dull rush

of our mediocrity; your shoulders

the mountains we stand upon as

we gaze back at all we’ve found

courage to finally leave behind.

Beneath pastel sheets, promises

borne of maybes and somedays

falter inside our sanguine mouths.  

We are Sunday afternoon lovers,

vinyl records and faded sonnets

printed upon worn yellow pages

of books long forgotten by most.

We are the last of the romantics;

dreamers who speak of freedom,

when maybe all we really seek is

escape. 

2am, Again. 

And they are so merciless,

these hours of darkness.

Broken clocks and silence

that shatters the windows

and shadows that arrange

themselves in the hollows

of my wretchedly sad mind.

There isn’t anyone but me,

a small girl with a big world

that closes fast around her.

I am alone, lost, homesick.

A vagrant heart that beats

in hushed resonance with

the loneliness of the night.

I long to find my way home

so I tie my laces and follow

trails of stale breadcrumbs

back down the paths I have

taken to find my way here.

But they are all overgrown

with weeds of remorse and

they only incline me further

away from myself and I have

lost the path that leads me

narrowly back to my heart.

I ask the stars if they would

show me the way, but they

busily cavort with the moon,

eager to skite their radiance

before morning light steals

away their glory, and I walk,

alone, lost to the night again,

still trying to find my way home. 

~ © Kathy Parker ~ 

Image courtesy www.mei-senpai-chan.deviantart.com

And This Is How Survival Looks On You

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And sometimes it is so hard to care for others when you can barely care for yourself. When you are tired in a way sleep will never ease. When the night goes too long and the morning comes too soon and you wonder where you will draw the strength to get through another day when there is nothing left in your drought-stricken bones.

You dress, make coffee, force a smile and hope nobody studies your eyes close enough to see the 4am loneliness that still lingers like tendrils of ivy that have crept in and wrapped themselves around your soul; relentless, incessant, determined.

You wear brave so well that nobody sees beyond the surface of your survival to the battle beneath. The way every day is another day on the frontline, no matter how exhausted and torn apart you already are. Nobody sees the fresh blood drawn from old wounds or the anguish in your muscles that are always on guard or how much it takes for you to get back up when your knees bleed from the crawl.

You do the best you can but it never feels enough. Every night inadequacy whispers its shame against your ear and soon your heart beats in time with its words. Failure. Disappointment. Hopeless. Weak. Useless. Incapable. All you ever wanted was to do better – to be better – than what was shown to you. But you feel as though you fall so short. That you let down those who need you. That you aren’t enough and never will be.

You’re so damn hard on yourself. As if it isn’t enough just to have survived this far. As if it isn’t enough to have found a way to stitch your broken pieces together when there was such little of yourself left. Instead, you’re so ashamed of not being straight lines and seamless joins and all you see are the jagged scars drawn across your body and your fingers trace over them like braille and to you they spell defeat.

Darling, let me tattoo truth inside your wrists so when you’ve forgotten who you are you need only look down. Undefeated. Worthy. Resilient. Strong. Courageous. Determined. Perfect. Enough. And if the light grows weak and the words fade before your eyes I will say them out loud and the letters will fall from my mouth and form a bridge that will lead you back to yourself once more.

You are so much more than you see. Your weakness intertwines with courage, your fear entangles bravery and your vulnerability is laced with strength. There is so much fortitude in the way you give all you have, even when you have nothing to give.

I know, today, you don’t believe me. I know today you are tired eyes and tear-stained pillows and battle scars etched upon your face. But all I ask is you look away from what you have come to believe about yourself and instead, look at me. Search my eyes for your reflection and in them you will see the truth.

That the way survival looks on you, my love, is nothing short of breathtaking.

Image courtesy http://asman0526.javanblog.ir

 

Free. 

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And she thought
to be accepted
she had to be good.
Follow the rules.
Do everything right.
Be perfect.
Keep them comfortable.
But good wasn’t real,
and she began to shrink
inside the lies of who
she pretended to be
until she became
so small her bones
crushed inside her frame
and she broke wide open,
scattered pieces laid bare
for the world to see.
A glorious destruction.
No longer hidden.
All of her naked.
Uncovered. Bleeding.
Exposed.
Free.
Real lost her many things.
But her soul it found.
And she would rather
walk alone in her
wondrous truth than
forfeit her real
for a scrap of their
shallow acceptance.

To Darkness

rain

Harsh winds began to rattle the windows
and the trees were stripped of their beauty
and she mourned the final moments
of autumn light as it became lost
to charcoal skies.
She shivered as the chill of winter
settled under her skin.
It brought with it a heaviness,
as if each drop of rain that fell
landed inside her hollow bones
and left her waterlogged; drowning
beneath its bitter sadness.
She longed to stay above the darkness
that rose inside her chest,
but each day she grew colder
and apathy wrapped around her until
she surrendered to the weight of it.
“Just for a while I’ll stay here
in this bleak comfort,” she told herself.
“Just until the wind no longer howls
through my soul and the sky
lifts its sorrow from my eyes.”
But it has been winter for so long now
that she fears she has become it, and
her grief-soaked heart lies in silent hope
that one day someone will pull her
from the water and gently wring
the sadness from her bones.