I have vanished a thousand times over. Every version of me a mutilated figment of the girl before, twisted and contoured into the subsequent unrecognisable figure with dull eyes.
A graveyard of words lost. The perpetual reverberation of too much.
The heart lashed against jagged rocks, whispering softly, willing to be loved.
The gashes from the razor on shins, the misshapen teeth and bottles of gin.
Sentiments and substance long-forgotten. Red blotches on a pale face, some boy's grin, blood spilling through veins; wrought obsessions.
Art etched down to the bone and paint smeared across skin. The lies spilling from lips, the jeans that used to fit loosely around thighs dig into my hips.
Sorrow beneath the surface wrenched into a plastered smile. A voice timid strings sounds of pleasantries all the while.
An unwashed jumper and wet cheeks. Curtains drawn; the passing of weeks.
Fragments of her strewn across distance. The recollection of a non-existence.
The girl that I am won't seem to die, no matter how hard all of us try.
I wrote another poem, which is scary. I think what I struggle with about poetry is that it's much more subjective than other forms of writing. Normally I spell everything out in black and white. In case you don't get it, this little poem speaks to my experience of being a woman. It's about social pressure, conformity, the little ways we change ourselves until the person we are feels unrecognisable from the versions that have come before.
I'll be back soon,
Tell me your thoughts, please.
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