the storybooks,
the soft carpets, and now,
at the end of the corridor,
the bath is running.
The water is tongueless, breathless.
I make a well in the thunder,
and shape a space for myself
to rock shut in the crux of a chemical
imbalance, this dyskrasia. It tastes
of finality: the salt of stones
and shattered wrists. Restless slumber.
But
it is also this:
my fists clenched on the future,
a destiny of my own design,
my own undoing. There is no aura,
no mystique – just a raw kind of power.
An open weakness. No more
tapping tables, knocking on would-
have-beens. I'll just lay back,
get waterlogged;
get ready to dream.
* * *
Dig, Ophelia. Just keep on digging.
This - this was painful. It's based on something that happened a while ago now, but I've never quite managed to tell anyone. I'm going through dark spaces at the moment, and I keep reliving this, over and over. Thought maybe it's time I let it breathe.
Again, sorry if this makes anyone feel uncomfortable.
Title's taken from Tale of a Tub by Plath, which this is in no way based on - it was just something I stumbled across again whilst wracking my brains for a title.
I'm sorry you're going through a bad time :( *hugs* This and the previous poem feel very intense - brilliant as usual, but intense and dark. I hope writing them was cathartic and achieved what you hoped it would xxx
ReplyDeleteThank you, dear. I think writing them helped purge the crapness a bit, helped externalise it all. I'm feeling a lot better now anyway (:
ReplyDelete*hugs* xxx