It’s all mine
You’ll adhere to my whims, pathetic swine
Statues underneath my eyelids; fire in my hands
It’s all going to plan
Martyr yourself on my blade
But first look upon the face where beauty does not fade
I walk upon the water of Lake Nemi, behold
a life dipped in gold
It’s all mine
This world, its people, its treasures lost to time
A more divine being this world has never seen
My life is obscene
I’m slowly stitching back my severed nerves, carefully, serrated edge dripping through my hands. have you ever been so [rage] you try to rip your shirt off at the collarbone? knees that topple to the ground, a controlled demolition. it [hurts].
You feel like imploding, collapsing inwards, [grief] is ripping chunks out of muscles again. why do you keep making me [sad] when it has been so long! it isn’t fair, when I try so hard, long, forever, to get it right. it isn’t right. stop [hurting] me.
I’m poking around for the [happy] in a rainy day, the [joy] in a dismissive gesture, the [love] in an empty house. I feel a [d]rag when you’re fl[ying].
Let me out of here
I could try
Meet a new person every day in the mirror, hair redding
at the edges, morning light oppressing. It’s a feeling
of an empty toolbox at the start of the day, blaring
old favourites at peak volume into ears, listening
to the silence that hums along, along, alone. Fixing
drinks, chemical carcinogens, pressure of time, sitting
on the dirty floor at 2:15am.
she’s staring again—through a slate patch on dirty viewscreen
behold that empty diary, no emergency contact
who the fuck are you to think anything needs you
things wouldn’t be better without you—they’d be exactly the same
she’s crying again—pressed between bed and wall
and you can’t help but consider
among the dust, stray hair, and nihilistic tendencies
there’s a whole lot of nobodies pretending to be somebodies out there
Please stop leaving me hanging.
Cables, frenetic.
What is one more time after thirty?
Slipping through.
Tired eyes tell tired time.
Please monitor for 72 hours.
Red elbow dents indicative of poor posture.
Again?
I’m so far away from it all.
Robot seething, memory imperfect.
Do you have enough time?
Megan Porter Poetry