If it's anything but the enemies felt like
the wind gliding across the pockets of my kite,
and how the slippery currents turned into
a hurricane in my lungs, which
made the bullies rumor about themselves.
Perhaps, we can explain depression
by drowning without swimming in an elixir death
brewed when i chose to live in my diary
dreams, i still bookmarked morning skies
on my hallowed bible pages of grief.
Perhaps, it is true that i gained scars
without getting cut, & drank
blood before getting stabbed,
I said an eulogy to myself
in silent acts of committed words,
weighing the half-awoken alibis
of my hallucinations,
imitating the stairwells of my body,
praising the church of the broken gods,
'wounds are blessings brought by life'
these animal bites reminds me of the big bang,
a tiny furnace sitting in my cold, dead psyche.
Perhaps, love is a land i get lost in,
an arcadian player of pestilence,
the stars do not wait for you.
I travel in war amongst canopies,
a sanctum burdens of death awaits me.
Perhaps, that the silent lamentations
of a clockwork god can be felt sombrely in
early mornings of pain, like how it
all started when i got trapped in a box filled
with the voices of my dreams.
I contemplate an exit whenever i feel lonely,
a treehouse coffin blanketed under my wounds,
emitted by death threats, a lit lighthouse
buried under my back.
I'll answer a million words to your question.
©sarah_
J