The poem as prey, as blood luscious, elusive. The poem as the locked room.
37 posts
Tw: Self Harm
Tw: self harm
Broken mosaic
Broken like a mosaic, this grief is beautiful.
Cold as a grave, this silence is peaceful.
A pain drenched tartarus was what made childhood.
A longing filled asphodel is what makes life cruel.
Sinister evil spirits, they whisper in the dark.
Cold harsh voice, it will shatter up your heart.
The silence kept saying with such delicacy.
But mind kept begging for sincere secrecy.
So close your little eyes, home is full of ghosts.
Hide your own self, it is terrifying to be known.
Shred your skin, once again you'll be filled with relief.
One last cut; an eternity of sleep.
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More Posts from Unlikelyanonymous
What am I?
A strange thing to wonder
I'm the anger of my father,
And the silent cries of my mother.
I'm the broken pieces of childhood,
Of a once happy daughter.
Him
He was butterflies.
He was anxiety.
He was silent cries.
He was that feeling of empty.
He was reliance.
He was trouble.
He was treacherous.
He was loyal.
He was steady.
He was unstable.
He was needy.
He was unpredictable.
He was my almost lover.
He was a goddamn nightmare.
He was a million little emotions.
Mixed into a disconsolate one.
There is love in my mother's disapproval.
It is there in the way she looks at me,
The way she loathes my existence.
It's not visible but it's there.
There is love in my father's resentment.
It is there in the way he talks to me,
The way he is ashamed of me.
It's not apparent but it's there.
There is love in my family.
It is there in broken dreams.
It is there in domestic scars.
So much love that you almost mistake it for hate.
Tw: self harm
Autumn still
The spring air is filled with laughter and serenity.
Not something to be tainted with my goddamn tragedy.
But I am alone and my wrist is bleeding.
Despair surrounds me like death to the grieving.
I don't know peace; I perhaps never will.
For my disconsolate existence it is autumn still.
Pic via pinterest
Spring is awaking from its slumber 🤍💐🌾