Poetry for Moths

Like the ebb and flow  Depend on one another, We come and we go, A release without smother. For when dreary days dance on, We seek out the sun Only to find it in each other. Darkness clouds our judgement,  In times of sorrow, Emptiness, grief; barren As the Great Barrier Reef.  Yet  There's always tomorrow, We come and we go. Just as we come and we go, Our doubts will wash over, Frothed and swivelled, To and fro. I bet  Even the cleverest raven, Sometimes feels like a crow.

Red lips, wine-tinted at the tips, Release words un-distilled and clement, Warm and true, full sentences that curl up to hearts, Anchoring friendships, solid, like cement. Honest and open, I'd stand by your mind in the deluge, Fight the war of your emotional refuge. I'd find your well and put a rope in. Don't you ever repent, When they say "too much",  You've only barely arrived, And I can't get enough.

Flesh-thought wreckages, gore on fine Paper. A first prize masochist, they say'd give it all up. Curse your eyes, your mouth, your mind, that I'd 180 for a touch. Anything to brush up, against you in time. It's too late to mend the cracks, To un-wrinkle the path and iron the creases, We lost our way when we bent our backs, For adventures that left us sleepless.  It's better this way, they say. But I burn and I ache, At the thought of what I've given you, And what you gave. Now everything's uncomfortable, And what used to be sacred, Is repressed, because we've faked it. Now we're uncomfortable. But I still love you after all.

Torchlight my burrowed brain, Wrap your film around my feelings. Wreck me from inside with pain stoppers  To punch-plug the bleeding. I recumb, Sandpaper eyes and body of uranium; I taste like salt, like iron, like metal, Call me a cauterised corpse, a burnt petal. Still, you don't run. How come? They'd think us a carnage, you know, a bloodbath If they heard it, The way we dissect our bruises uncensored, Our thoughts decomposed, an absurd fit. Glued gum, You the apprehensive and the taut, Me the sensitive and the numb. I guess I love you, call me stupid, call me otherworldly,  Call me dumb. I'll tiptoe the perimeters of your space always, I'll call, No matter if you need it, Shut the doors, build a wall. Give me love and I'll water it, absorb it, upkeep it. Love me, and I'll breathe it.

My fingers are slums, Where squalid thoughts go to wander, Materialise, and be torn asunder, Pitied like crumbs. Massacred, mangled, burst: Now ashtrays are coffins, And oxygen has toxins,  The party bus into the New Year, a hearse.  My fingers are parched, Pleading for good times to pillage My insides empty, a love spillage, The world, starched. They all agree though, come through, This year will be better. But all I can think of is that I'll never forget her, First year without you.

Scorch my heart, fiery fiend, Break the bones of my bad back to lay them bare. Latch on to my eyes like tarp, like sludge, like muck, Quarantined and devoid of air. Me, the sitting duck. Me, the unprepared, the crushed. Velvet blood core. And you, no heart, no bones, no eyes, no breath, Are cherished dust, a memory. Take me to shore, And cut my cold hair. Rid me of this harrowing treachery, My senses beat to death. Dry me like a flower, strip me naked, Take everything you see fit, Even my mind, I'll let you break it. Ruin me, see if I care. Anything to hear your voice again, Burn me to the ground, if you dare. Fallen too far, knees shattered and bent,  Now I only beg you to help it all make sense,  Pick me up withered, a flower so dry, As I ask for one last sound,  One last cry with my dear old friend, Just one world paradox, once before the end.

Here you are again, your relentless Hello breathing down my neck. You again, the very definition of Other. It is not so much that I resent your reoccurrence, That I resent your reappearance; I find comfort in my seething, Warmth in hating you, solace in your homemade wreck. Here you are again, flaunting your wrapped finger still, It's you with your pointy whispers wrung out in saccharine silks, Sickly and alluring. And you call out to me, otherworldly, never-ending: "That is she." I find comfort in my seething you see, As you set me apart, designate me as the Other woman to your entourage, Set me ablaze with your own red letter, Revel in your choking mirage. At least I can say confidently now: my sorrow not in vain, The irony clear, you the Other woman, you the heart polluter, You the inconsiderate and parched bane. It must be December that brings you about this way, Fills my tired mind w...