jikivigoig

i fade with stilted shots, the audience waits for me.   choking.    oh god how could this happen with my throat twisted up and my head bound tight in ropes i'm not sure i want to untie?               snap my brittle wrists. i'm losing again, numbers scaling down to a place i should not be. a parasite is swallowing my energy.    tests are negative. i breathe. -- just as i drift into pale, fading sleep, his fingernails claw through the material of my skull. i don't know who he is but i remember the wooden floor beneath me the length of my hair catching under my back as i struggle and how it felt when he left me on the floor, limp tear stre

i fade with stilted shots, the audience waits for me.   choking.    oh god how could this happen with my throat twisted up and my head bound tight in ropes i'm not sure i want to untie?               snap my brittle wrists. i'm losing again, numbers scaling down to a place i should not be. a parasite is swallowing my energy.    tests are negative. i breathe. -- just as i drift into pale, fading sleep, his fingernails claw through the material of my skull. i don't know who he is but i remember the wooden floor beneath me the length of my hair catching under my back as i struggle and how it felt when he left me on the floor, limp tear stre

Once, there was nothing in the universe but a black-blue stretch of broken dreams and a scattered number of Suns, spilt around like rotten milk. They were breaks in the hopelessness and despair of beginnings; breaks in which emotions burned like fire and irregularity was welcome. And there was one particular Sun who, though small and dimmed, held the flaws given to him by the other Suns with a grace none other could manage – at least at first. Envy and compassion, weakness and love – they all bundled inside him like a coiled spring, waiting for the moment when it might be set loose with a twang. He grew, like only a child could, an

distance cries away: blood on the sheets and tears shed – secrets of the soul. --- pants and screams run high; your eyes weep twinkly moonlight. darkness understands. --- you have something left – bloody dreams will torment us – please hold hands with me.

this is a (one-sided) love affair from afar. you hide behind that paint-peeling wall of this-is-wrong and accusations of idiocy and many other humiliations, and i'm somewhere across the ocean, strung up by my ankles from flagpoles and the odd broken streetlight: i assume that if you knew you'd plug my nostrils with lightning bolts, so i wouldn't be able to breathe without electrocuting my thoughts, which, let's be honest, are dead enough already, if you'd just leave them alone in their coffins. i could've said i was happy buried in any other circumstance (i could have lied, i could have.) i have a gut overflowing the waistband of these be

i.   pause – take a breath. metal binders crack like stiff ankle joints under the same pressure applied to wrestle your lungs into an asthmatic's perfect nightmare. the world has slipped through your fingertips, minutes lurking somewhere around the next corner, and you are not here, in this canned-laughter, cardboard-smile imposter. ii.   this is a sterile home with no windows or doors, nothing but bare white walls and an empty- faced ceiling – and your rusty lips curve around words that are not your words because you are not you. and this is a place of soundproof screams, of phantom limbs that move with ins

1-01-2013 (on blue-lined paper with a dark blue ink stain) spiderweb memories and another i will not trust: swipe his eyes shut and leave me to hang. 5-01-2013 (on torn printing paper) sometimes i feel a flicker, almost like an artificial light before it dies or perhaps the sun as it peeks out from a break between murky storm clouds. 11-01-2013 (on blue-lined paper, aligned to the right) portrayed without a voice, the cardboard barriers are collapsing silently – almost as if the only resistance you can claim is the one you create and store secretively behind your bitter-brittle collarbone. 17-01-2013 (on the back

1-04-2013:          (I am a poet.) once i used to write in rhymes and about imaginary things; now, my thoughts work in free-verse, too wild to tame and contain and too messily personal to organise into structured verses. 5-04-2013:          (A thousand kisses deep.) you tied me a thousand kisses deep hands bound and ankles tied to bedposts mouth duct-taped shut because you don't like the sound of my screams and my skin entrenched a thousand kisses deep. 6-04-2013:          (Monochromatic fears.) these fears blend into each other, vaguely the same but different in shades and tone: you might find my cib- ophobia in a dark cluster, whereas my

these voices are too bright -- slapped across the kitchen bench like pink-raw chicken breast waiting to be sliced with a knife far too sharp to be nestled in my hands like this --- this is no gun to my temple but i could have you shot for staring at my fumbling fingers trying to keep my shirt together, yank it higher so my now-laddered skin can hide behind the comfort- fabric:  i curl up beneath my bloodstained bedsheets, weeping desperately into my pillow because i don't want to have to clean my clothes in the shower again, i don't want to have to scrub my white school shirt until the blood spots disperse and fade, i don't want to have to wa