I’m tired of playing the game.
I’m tired of your trembling and of your cowering.
I’m tired of your collective victimhood.
I’m tired of the taste of blood,
The fat coating my tongue.
I’m tired of dousing myself in the ashes
and putting up the act. Do not prostrate yourself in my path.
I’m tired of drinking your blood
I’m tired of my flamboyant blood-streaked hair.
I’m tired of my head-ripping strength.
I want to sink down, weak and forlornI want to be a victim.
The hate speech reverberates infinitely
That boy whose blood I must draw
And these red monkeys
With pointy hatred keen
I draw blood
The ritual exorcism
And for ever more
The long dead vengeful wandering ghost of hatred
Causing choler and melancholia
Traverses my body
In its long aborted
She would shudder away from the possibility of a breakdown. In spite of the drama she craved, she hated being too loud. So she buried the little hairy ball underneath layers and layers of forgetfulness. Coating it with the mother of pearl sheen—it was precious and secret, after all. It seemed to her that she stood on the brink of the great big abyss managing to cling on somehow in spite of the tremendous allure of the fuzzy, unending darkness of oblivion. Later Dr Cherebous would say that she ‘was already nearing the great impact of the fall’. The Fall. From deliberate forgetfulness or innocent misinformation. Nobody told her—you’re alright. They all wanted to squeeze out all the drama out of her while they could. She who hated public displays of emotions but was invariably melodramatic. A secret craver of Plathian neurosis she waited and waited for the intense pain-pleasure of the masochist. It never came. The intensity was missing in everything but her desire for it. So, frustrated, she pushed everything away. They went away, happy to conform to the roles of victims.
the keen edge of a knife
slices off so perfectly leaving the white bone bared.
I want a rusted saw to hack at me again
Make me feel pain
Not the keen pangs of the living—
But to bring me back from this undead world
Hack me into feeling
Transform this wormy flesh
A self-conscious cat
When it feels your eyes upon its
Furry yellow body
It wakes up
To greet you
With a silly smile
It swats a butterfly
Its whisker incandescent against the white page
Its tail curled up snail-likeYou just can’t make it purr