Self-Pity

I am scratching at a patch of skin
That I dislike, wanting to dig deep,
To see what I am made of.

I am clawing my way in,
Through the ever-growing, gaping hole
Of infected flesh and nearly-exposed bone,

Erupting the same crazed blood
That has me wounding myself
In the first place.

Words I'm Scared of Saying Out Loud

My insides are tired,
And I'm sad.

I'm doubtful of your love
Because all I want to be is a closed book,
And I wonder how you ever understood me.

My fingers are twisted and wrung,
There are nail marks on my hands,
And I'm less and less able to keep the emotions wanting to erupt,
In.

I don't like talking and the sound of my voice
Is sometimes foreign to me;
I like singing, they are other people's words;
And so the thoughts swirl and swirl in my head,
Cranking a voice box that just won't work.

Sometimes I just want to be alone.
The corner. The cocoon. The nook between pillows.
They are all enticing. Self-powered warmth. Silence. Stillness.

Gravedigger

Today is a day about loss:
The persistent dull ache of a wound
That had healed, but that never will.

My past is an unmarked grave;
Some things are meant to be left
Untouched and dead,

Lest it be an ocean of unsettled sand,
The release of rune-locked shadows,
A girl, remembering repressed memories.

I am a star waiting to explode.

Unfulfilled.
Unraveled.
Unsettled.
Unsatisfied.

Le caractère

So. This is my drawing of myself. Well. The face is mine. The flower crown and butterfly were added on. As with all drawings, the beginning was difficult. The rendering, at times hard, but pretty fun overall. The shading, cathartic.

All my favourite flowers; sunflower, laurel, dahlia, peony, jasmine, gerbera, rose, another jasmine variant, butterfly orchid. And a strand of pearl.