Milk-and-Pie

                 My body is a trail of blood marks, cigarette burns and ravenous ferocity down your throat because you once kissed, courted, and tantalised death for the sake of painting cyclones and hurricanes on the blank slate heart you thought I had. I'm a poison ivy growing, tangling, twining around your star crossed future I was erotically, maniacally, co-dependently in love with. I spit serpent tongue and baby spiders onto your hipbones just so you could turn into a haphazard maelstrom and toxic wasteland and see that I'm merely a pigtailed child tethered to a bedpost and you are the mural showcasing my feral tantrum.               I

                You're not poison ivy and you're not crushed mimosa, you're not a history of screwed ups and let downs, you're not choked hazard with nothing else to give. You're not his or hers or theirs to be tugged and pulled around by their selfish and egocentric whims and your future is certainly not on their leash. You don't combust into flames and extinguish into ashes on the click of their fingers, so breathe and relax. You don't owe anyone anything and you certainly are not their definition of damaged cassette tapes.                Tell anyone who had e

This is for the person I was:                You're web-work of copper wire haphazardly fused together in forms of meltdowns and panic attacks; you're a war cry of an infinite loop of marching, hurling, dying soldier and for the love of god, you're the bitter aftertaste between a reckless blend of gin and tequila. You'll hurl and gag and choke and your throat will feel like you just retched on ashes and gnawed on graveyard dirt. Even so, you're brass knuckles and you're iron helm, you're canon fire and you're battle spear, you're to spit fire and strangle death because you had always been capable of c

                This is what it feels like to crumble down in a blazing squall.                You are muffled gunshots wrecking yourself in high speed collision with his brass armor. You compress every eruption by choking ashes and swallowing shatter glasses because god forbid you are a frostbitten girl with hitched breath and messed up mascara and god forbid you are explosive and god forbid you crumble down because no, you are an inspiration and you are clenched fist and sculpted chest, you are concrete and you are statue, you are the ice cold dusk and YOU DON

                You will climb and mount his lips and taste every syllable of his words just to find a space where you could fit in; you will press your fingers onto symphonies of black and white cacophonous outrage just because your mind is a cosmic explosion and a catastrophic cyclop. You're a shipwreck that crushes yourself into graveyards and you cry yourself into a smudged mascara and glassy eyed mess just to hope for one day you'll justify your existence without hurting yourself anymore. And when your tornado eyes come gushing down in watershed tears at every nightfall, you will climb behind brick

                Usually it's easy to live without you. I wake up with my baby nephew shaking and hugging and poking me because he wants to play with me and I have to comply because he's too adorable. Mum's bacon sandwich always makes me happy because come on, it's bacon.                But not today. Today feels like asphalt dust just blows up on my face when I speed to town. Today feels like the gears on clocks stop working and my eyes are thunderstorms and lightnings. I couldn't see or feel, but they are overflowing with the madness of static movement. I think

i. You aren't the ruins of Greece. You don't combust into fascination when the black rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison your veins and stop your heart beat in  black splotches and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away. ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails. You don't have to get why your wounds rot like the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others

                But what you don't know is that I am frustrated that I can't write a poem about the thorns growing on my veins or icebergs rooting in my heart. I can't write about the void in me when he no longer plays me Beethoven's music or sings me out of tune songs.                Because there is none. I didn't feel anything when he left.                Truth is, I want to feel crushed and heart broken, because at least sadness could prove that I did love him and that what he said about me never loving him is wrong.

                Just because it is burning my mind, and it holds a grenade that blasts everything I have into remnants of his musky scent; because I feel like I'm gagging, except that I'm coughing poems and vomiting metaphors; because words can be a crumpled piece of paper drowned in tears, and every poem written can be blended into fiction; and because my limbs feel like they had been devoured by the lava in the words and the music notes I play sink deep between the piano keys, and apparently banging the keys does not help silencing the empty screams at night.