Black on Blue.

If you had a clue how it hurts when you cut in,

with your blade ever-sharp, like a spade to my heart, within;

if you felt the fear that I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this person I am,

under this roughed up and broken skin,

I doubt you’d ever be able to hurt me, again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you would sooner beat me than to let me get away,

for just a moment, from the constant hurt and pain,

you’d rather violate me in every imaginable way.

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you broke me down and ground me out through the course of time;

once you knew I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you recognized the kind by which my spirit is defined,

it then became a simple matter of the gradual pass of time,

before it explodes, and you lose your damned mind.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled,

at the hands of your very own beloved,

if your days were so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent your every night being pinned beneath dread,

and your days cleaning wounds all over your swimming head,

I can guarantee that you would have killed me, instead.

When your painful marks cover all of my visible parts,

and you still can’t fight the despicable urge to tear the rest apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done to me in the dark –

when you recognize my terror, so you’re sure to make it smart,

and you have brutality down to a medieval dungeon art,

it’s no wonder my blood runs so miserably slow and dark.

Apex.

The words written,
have me feeling
sickly and un-smitten,
through the text,
be me sensing one
yellow-starred Apex,
“art”, or something,
special status – VIP
gums – bumping,
keep it sloppy,
your literary versions
parties with Pop Queens,
it almost hurt me,
be not for a sudden
void of curiosity,
two masters, one crown,
too many jars
full of HONEY to count,
volume’s up, open trunk
toes tapping
to your wordy junk,
speakers thumping,
I take the trash out at night
blood stops pumping,
and…..so here I go,
paddling my way
to be broken by the sea,
be it one born of saline,
or oceans of lies
it is my serpentine,
and I, its wiry chord,
whatever be it was
to my own accord,
do not folly to believe,
that my yellow star
takes you or your
so-called “poetry”,
in the least bit seriously.

Black Days.

If you knew how it feels when you cut in,

with a blade to the core of my heart, within;

if you felt what I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this loveable person

under this bloody and broken skin…

I don’t think you’d be able to hurt me again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise me that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you refuse to let me get away

            from the constant hurt and pain…

How can you even spit the words “I love you”, at me, anyway?

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you battered it into something no longer reminiscent of mine;

once you knew that I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you saw the ways by which my spirit is defined

            only a matter of mattered time…

before the Universe levels out, and the planets re-aligned.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled’

at the hands of your very own, singularly beloved;

if your heart stabbed so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent every moment of your nights underneath dread

and your days cleaning up the wounds on your head…

I’m sure you would have already killed me, instead.

When your marks cover all of my visible parts,

yet, you can’t fight your despicable urges to tear me apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done again in the dark –

when you recognize the terror, so you’re sure to make it smart

            and you capitalize on my body, down to a medieval dungeon art…

it’s no wonder then, that my blood runs so burgundy from your heart.

This is a poem that recently found scribbled by hand into an old notebook I used to keep during my marriage/captivity. This is something that I wrote right around the very first time that I tried to leave my The Ripper, when I was eighteen years old and six months pregnant with Boo.

The important thing I would like anyone who reads this to keep in mind is…

I WENT BACK.

Apex.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

The words written,

have me feeling

sickly – un-smitten,

through the text,

be me sensing one

yellow-starred Apex,

“art”, or something,

special status – VIP

gums – bumping,

keep it sloppy,

your literary versions

parties with Pop Queens,

it almost hurt me,

be not for a sudden

void of curiosity,

two masters, one crown,

too many jars

full of HONEY to count,

volume’s up, open trunk

toes tapping

to your wordy junk,

speakers thumping,

I take the trash out at night

blood stops pumping,

and…..so here I go,

paddling my way

to be broken by the sea,

be it one born of saline,

or oceans of lies

it is my serpentine,

and I, its wiry chord,

whatever be it was

to my own accord,

do not fool yourself to believe,

that my yellow star

takes this seriously.