I’m just reviewing my recent poetry. And considering how, when I’ve only just started to write again, after a good year or so of being frozen… It’s pretty dark.
My moods fluctuate alarmingly, as you know, or can imagine, if you ‘know me’ – but, I didn’t realise how ‘dark’ I was.
I worry that I’ll be alone forever, tormented by men forever. Never to be … normal (I did struggle to use a different word just then) and I actually wonder what that would be… ‘normal?’ Everything is so far removed from what ‘normal’ was.
Warm hands held on a cold night
The stinging hotness of a slap
This is not a picture of love.
Midnight whispers cheek to cheek
Voices raised, mouths wide
This is not the sound of love.
Funny how a smile can miss the eyes
But shards of malice can chip the heart
A blindfold made of water, a soul torn apart