Vile

For you 'woman' should be redefined. I don't like you belonging in my gender. There is no finesse to you, no art - not a hint of femininity extends beyond the throbbing pulse in your vulva. Of course to the uneducated eye the way you hold yourself, the extent of your breast as you breathe your heavy sighs, the curl to your bass note hips, the seemingly endless advance of your limbs; to those eyes, and perhaps the organs that proceed them - you are the embodiment of 'woman'. However, I know women to be more than that. You are a mere harpy, an imitation of the beauty of humans. You walk with the same prowess, cat like in your stalk, but erect - a true marsupial stride. How long did it take you dear demon, to perfect that humane puppetry?

In all honesty I am but awed, for if my impersonation were nearly as flawless as yours; I'd never have to check my blood was red. I thought the claws you placed in him were vindictive. I long cursed my talons for being all too blunt, unable to keep my love, longing for the squirming desperation of him as a worm on my hook. 'Only fair' I rationed, as I was the disembowelled maggot on his. It was however not entirely your fault. He fled from me for I was a glacier. Yes my heart was feverish, a thousand erupting volcanoes trapped in the centre of a beating sun. But no one knew of the solar planets coursing within me. Ice queen extraordinaire as I was. An expression like marble, with a side order of contempt. Only I knew of the ways in which he shook my planets, the way in which without his magnetism my galaxy would cease to expand.

I softened his skin. It became desperate for affection. So when you placed your claws against it, and thrashed with a lonely desperation; he accepted them with a dire gravity - parting like watery complacent batter in a chipped mixing bowl. But you see sweet doe eyed Satan, you should never have touched what was not yours to touch. For no matter the list of my sins - which i am sure you recite together with a giggle, like bed times stories of the damned - yours were greater. With your claws you caught him, and with your kiss you stole him. The polars to my gravity. The oscillation of my being. If you had turned your wings another direction, your sharp eyes on another man, maybe I could have let myself love him and thawed the ice from around these scars.

I try not to see myself in you. It makes it easier not to compete, to lock you in a box next to all the others - sandwiched somewhere between my father and my god - labels branding you all with an obtuse; 'DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE. MAY CAUSE RAGE'. I don't miss the taste of my fingers down my throat as I tried to become you, nor do I miss the jealous miasma that breathed from my pores at the mention of your name. Unhappiness is a sickness that loves to infect, thanks to yours mine became a pandemic. When I think of you relishing the vapid thrill of your betrayal I smirk at the idea of it wearing thin, thinner than I wore as I stretched to survive it.

The humour is I never wished you dead my nectarous imp, the way I wished myself. Nor I never wished you disappear oh treasured fiend, the way I began to. I never cursed you, rued you, despised you. You delicious incubus, I more craved you. Your mythological maliciousness saved me. I needed you to curdle; to act less than I believed was woman, be less than I believed was human. You took from me. You broke me. You killed me. And in that, Saint Harpy, you reminded me I was alive.

Always/Never

You're a distraught comedy. The way you perceive yourself. An entitlement birthed from an empire of nothing, a self deprecation handed to you on a golden platter. I was the worm on the end of your hook. Writhing and caught. Why did I not come loose? No one tried to free me, they watched me wriggle - blood oozing from my naive wounds, my guts spilling across my far from innocent anatomy. In my mind I was angelically blessed, the light of you forming a moulding halo above my exoskeleton. For what was the pain of feeling in due of the power of possibility? The days merged by, every empty second became a longing, and in that longing I found you; a purpose. The lost moments that previously had been unnoticed were suddenly on fire with desire. These were the moments of silence, the moments that belonged to no one but boredom became yours, counting towards you. I never asked myself if you were worthy, too consumed by necessity.

Since the fall of our entanglement i've been reflective. I think maybe now that my always was your 'for now'. The days I planned for us were days you kept empty because you knew that you never meant any of the tentative bullshit I swallowed with a shy gulp. Your smile to me was a beacon of security, to you it was just an involuntary reaction to the amusement you found in my gullible confusion. The intoxicated haze we ran through kept me subdued, I believed we were new to the addiction together but you'd been a convert for years, the needle marks barely visible through the tough shell of skin you'd built for yourself after years of pain. I don't blame you for your calluses. To me your existence rings sorrow. For my youthful skin will heal over the stab wounds you planted in it, the fact the knife of my affliction never made a dent in you is far more pitiful. You may think that I am lost without you, and of course your ego will feed that delusion - but the truth is that the part of me I thought you completed was a part of me that I'd been trying to destroy. A codependent shield developed from a fear of deserving connection. How I wish now my ailment hadn't reached you. For in our mornings of mourning, and our honest sunday sighs, I found that hate is a feeling more than love. So as I never felt for you the latter - why is the former so ripe in my chest? Consuming and cold, hate is all I breathe for you now. Hate, and the crippling panic that you won't regret your war cry - your promise of never, your rejection of me.

Lonely

The friends you made in your dreams were gone when you awoke. You hoped they'd left a post-it, or a note scrawled on the back of a rizzla to tell you when they'd next visit. But true to the fickle nature of all humans, those trapped within our subconscious and those we find awake; they simply left. You looked around yourself at the bottles of liquor, their original contents drained - replaced instead with the solid mass of emptiness. This mass was the tumour in you. You feel it between your ribs. Like the shadow to your barely beating heart. You hope one day the mass will become too much. That it will swell and absorb all your organs. Forcing them to become the nothing, become the emptiness that makes you question killing them off yourself. The internal massacre to finalize the war you rage through everyday.

Your limbs are heavy as you dress for the day. You half-heartedly place your legs into jeans. And no-heartedly stare at your skeletal reflection. The day has yet to rise, and the dark of the advance above you feels so perfect. Why can it not swallow you whole? Why must it nibble at you, prolonging your consumption. Is it trying to be helpful, to give you more time? Or is this what it believes you deserve. A desolate hopeless scenery, so you can never escape the matching crushed black of your mind. You can not blame the sky. It did not birth these tumours. They were born with you, and fed off your bad decisions. Gained strength from those who left you, feasted off the loves you lost, the lives you ruined. The tumours are your darkness. They are the loneliness you will never escape. No amount of organ transplants would cleanse you of them. They are in your blood. On your skin. They are you. This is the thought that keeps them with you. They drown you in the fear of losing them, masquerading it as a fear of giving life to more. They manipulate you. Convince you that your trials will heed nothing good - only more of them. You can want all you wish, but you shall never be allowed to love. Because you may think the loneliness is the shadow of your heart. But it is your heart. And it's shadow is all of you. You can never escape.