This is not me
This is an imitation
Forged from a necessity to provide
In a world which fragments reality and personality
I grieve for precious time
Who I was is broken down
Unrecognisable, and consumed
Unless the imitation becomes a shield
And the world outside a monster
To be eaten by the broken-down imposter
Bringing me back to life
debilitates and smears
a synthetic human
into a state of nothing.
she harms herself,
realising she is not
worthy of the words her
alter ego spews.
fiction too deeply
because she is not in it.
Caught in the crossfire of someone else’s cruelty
She tiptoes up my spine, testing for weak points
“They hate you.” She whispers,
Devouring my faith with an angry smile
I thought I got over girls like her, decades ago
but it seems I’m infected, have not fully recovered
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll forget her, and myself.
Looking backwards, I ask myself, “What was I, before I was caught?”
I wasn’t a butterfly. This cocoon isn’t going to magically transform me into something beautiful and liberated.
I watch through the gaps, others with wings, whose lives are vibrant and magnificent.
I visited them today, crawled out, and flapped around pretending to be one of them, briefly. I felt joy, and hope, and remembered myself, until it was time to return.
Feeling overwhelmed, in this dead space.
Powerful and consuming. The small ‘d’ grows until
This Twenty First Century place, deflates me
Fluttering, numbing, until I’m needles, shaking to nothing.
She saw her future unravelling,
consumed by him completely
not a trace of hope
for her ghost
his words tattooed on her flesh,
cutting out an old woman’s shape
binding himself to her
he used her younger self to sew up his damaged life
until her own was frayed beyond recognition
any thought of escape severed
so she dreamed of dying in her sleep
released from unintentional cruelty
The old woman slipped out of existence
Thanking herself silently.