i cant
                                                         tell the
              difference
                                                                                               between
                                               rea
                                                                                      lity
         and dreams
                                                        any more?
                                                                                                    ?

the moths ate holes
in the silk of my hands
your touch falls through them
like black volcanic sand

I only want to be alone
I want my wounds open to the bone

I never want to use my mouth
to talk, to laugh, to scream or shout

I want to be quiet, I want to be small
I don't want to be known or remembered at all

I want pink wings and faerie-like grace
I want to be able to hide my face

I want to disappear into the night
I want her to take me with one clean bite

trauma is not
a beautiful thing
i'm not a bird
with broken wings
not a sick puppy
for you to save
not a white daisy
growing over a grave
i'm rotten inside
down to my core
grabbing handfuls
of guts and gore
pushing it back
under my skin
so you will not see
the condition i'm in

my mind
is a colourful
canvas
and
your beautiful
behaviour
is a pleasing
painting