Colon, comma, capital C.

A poem on the theme of vulnerability. There's a couple of sweary words in here so be advised if you don't care for that kind of thing.

 

Colon, comma, capital C.

A linguistic interpretation

of a visual representation

of my vulnerability,

wrapped up in the

comedy rule of three.

Colon, comma, capital C.

 

Crushed by cycles

of obsessive ideas;

some crass and cliché,

some toxic and possessive,

some circuses

with creepy clowns,

snake oil salesmen,

and a ringmaster

who's cold, bloodshot eyes

stare transfixed on me.

Colon, comma, capital C.

 

A face reddened by tears,

warped,

the corners of my mouth

being stretched to my shoulders

my cheeks stream with tears

as I panic

and I ache

and I beg

and I cry

and I scream.

Colon, comma, capital C.

 

All the lights are out.

The darkness has bled

over every surface.

An inch thick

layer of ink

fighting off my gaze.

The only thing

my eyes can touch

is the edge

of the closet door

ajar.

In that closet

lies a box

of skirts and lies and tops

from the “ladies section”

alongside suits and ties

and boots and lies

about who I am

and what I want to be.

Colon, comma, capital C.

 

Behind the clothes,

the socks and robes,

the long-abandoned

box of Lego

there’s a monster.

He’s 9 foot tall

with long claws

a square jaw

and he looks like

every kid

who used to kick

and punch

and spit on me.

Colon, comma, capital C.

 

I open the door

because this motherfucker

won’t own my space

one day more.

I open the door

and I hit the lights

and part of me

wants to say

the monster took flight,

but he fights

and he kicks

my fucking ass.

But I survive.

And I realise that,

even when I’m bleeding,

I’m still alive

and when the monster

has had his fill

he’s gone.

Because his bites

and scratches

can only hurt me

once.

So as I bleed

and cry

and beg

and scream

I’m free.

Colon, comma, capital C.

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