deepundergroundpoetry.com
"The Sick Girl Is Ranting - Part One"
This mumbling, baffling character of a not so distant woman is joining together with forces of tales and stories that make her hurt but wait she sees the light--reaches for it but alas crumbles back down to the ground in utter waste. NO, you don't touch her you fool, you man, you wretch. She means herself or more the blade that sometimes still calls she knows she'll never recreate the blood that fell from her wrists, all those ties breaking and bending and shattering and trying to sleep but getting no relief and so they have to fuck themselves until the faint. Her eyes, like blades, show a more disturbed side to her smile when the red is against her skin, rubbing and wanting to be inside of her but she doesn't want that does she? She dislikes the feeling of the cold metal against her-or does she, yes, no, maybe so, forget it change the topic. A womans humming, a teenagers laughter, a childs crying. Those things that she heard and saw were her, and her dissociative mind, unable to stop herself from splitting her body into three parts. A mother that didn't see and therefore didn't help her. A teenager that is happy, one that she will never be. A child that is broken, a reminder that she was once ill and infested with things that rattled her insdies so she hated them all. The whole topic of sex makes her sick in fact, much rather talk about death or gore, suicide? Maybe even the fact that she's scared, scared those three people will come back or maybe just that one, the little girl with the blood running down her legs. Her hair which is straw for she is a doll, poke and pin, cut and dress, shape and remodel--yes mother dearest I do obey you, you control my stockings, the men that I don't want, the women I'd rather love then hate, the make up older pigs take notice to, with their hands and fingers and handle and hurting and pain and tears and blood. You are so fake with that laugh that make me want to kill the cat and stuff it in your mouth so you'll never ask 'why' again, why did I die? Why did I bother? Why did I bleed in my bed? No mommy it wasn't me getting older, it was him mom listen to me, it was the boy I so loved and lied to you for. The boy with the mind of a man, he hurt me, he bruised me, he fingered me, he raped me, he fucked me, get off that phone. Listen to your daughter she needs you but you won't be there, will you oh foolish flousy thinking of men at a time when all I was a kid and now I stop my third person, because I am me even if I don't want to be. It is you woman that is my enemy, woman, whore, slut, mommy. Abuse me, yes burn my hands with water, pinch my arm will they gush red blood, drown my into an oblivion so I fall into time again, relapse, relapse, relapse...
"I never doubt you that you were a Mother, only doubt that you were a Mom."
"I never doubt you that you were a Mother, only doubt that you were a Mom."
Published 1st Aug 2011
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 1
comments 2
reads 833
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
8th Aug 2011 2:46am
8th Aug 2011 5:22am
Thank you for your feedback and your veiw. It was meant to show that raunchy pain and raw terror, so I'm glad you decided to comment on that and not my spelling mistake. :)
