I am the steel plated locked door

You are the intricate key

Countless sets of clumsy hands have fumbled to pick the lock

Each one eventually chucking their chosen weapon to the concrete by my feet

Exasperated in their defeat

Longing to feel draped in all that lies in the unknown

Broken down to dust as they realise the end destination for our collision

Was inevitably a lone ticket home

I barely feel the struggle against my palm

As yet another attempts to push past arms length

Just another featureless face trying in vain

To smash my stone walls

It’s almost comical;

that they truly believe their glass hammers hold hope

I see their souls through their eyes

I see their demons dance

Lurking in the shadows of their words

They hold their hands on the holy book and

swear me only truths

Then comes the sadistic glint switch in the

depths of their minds

Confirming that swear of truth

Was the first lie

Generic, predictable lies that feed my pit of

detachment and despise

Like a pack of ravenous lions

Sugar dipped promises act as a fully

primed fishing line

Time spent is nothing but sitting back on deck and setting up camp

Waiting for the days big catch

My third eye is their worst nightmare

And my, heaven sent saviour

My third eye is the lock

Your purity is the key

You are my living proof that genuine love and intent

Isn’t just a fallen leaf

That tree still breathes beauty

Even if it’s never you and me

I thank you for that grace, truly.

Dear Lucy, stop sharing this way. You keep overloading the packages, and they break before they’ve arrived. Dear Lucy, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I’m just trying to help, and yes I know, you’ve heard that before. It’s just that, I don’t think that everyone gets where you’re coming from. I don’t think that everyone gets where they’re coming from. Dear Lucy, I’m sorry that things happened this way. I’m sorry about how many things you can remember. And no. I don’t think that most people have so many things to remember. And no. I don’t know how to stop the memories, but Dear Lucy, it just runs in your family, this heaviness, and this running, Dear Lucy, I don’t know what you mean about feeling too small and too large all at once, but I’m sure that you could just call it antithesis, Dear Lucy, Dear Lucy, have you tried sleeping? Have you been eating? Dear Lucy, you have to sleep, Dear, Lucy, stop crying, stop holding those hands, stop overfilling, you’re not under-filled, and I swear one day you’ll be full, if you’d just stop giving so much away, Dear Lucy, I think I understand now, and Dear Lucy, we’re spiraling. Dear Lucy, don’t leave. Dear Lucy, I’m leaving, stop writing me here.

awash, I awaken

my skin crackled in the sun

my eyes peeled yet unopened

how long have I been under?

raising a head this rock on my neck

the strength of it loosely lifts

how long has the sun been warm?

has the sand been rough?

the wind been so welcome

the sky been so blue?

how long has the moon made such promises

the stars been so vigilant

lost in their light

a drink would be best

but reality tests

how long have I been unaware

how long will I be here?

#awake #thoughts #poetry

In a dream, I invite my father over for dinner. In a dream, I speak with my hands. I press index and middle finger on each hand together, then fling what they’re holding away

/they’re holding nothing/

and I’m saying, I’m lost

In a dream I flourish both hands out to my right and push myself away, and my father loads the word abandoned into the barrel of a gun

I hold up 3 fingers on each hand and the light blushes at my innocence

I am speaking with my hands, but I don’t know most words, so in a dream I clear the table by pressing my face down into the dirty plates. I pull the table cloth out from under the dishes, and it’s actually a quilt, and the food crashes to the floor, and I suffocate on things I didn’t want, and I leave my bed to stop the crying that started in the closet

The ceiling is yellowed and the walls are suicidal, when I put two fingers to temple and close the thumb down to shoot

I don’t know how to speak with my hands, so in a dream I stare into my father’s eyes. I hope that when I cry, he swallows the tears and teaches me a new way to deal with the things that I locked up in the attic

/the attic is empty shadows/

But even in the dream he agrees with the word gun, and I hold up an amber alert so that he knows that what I meant by the milk carton was that this is where I learned how to fix things

I press a bullet into his palm and a pill into my own

I paint the scene in red, I swallow the scene in blue

i wait in the rain / drops slithering through my lashes like ice / umbrella clutched in knuckles turned white / staring up at your bedroom window / waiting for your face / because you'll be out in a moment, right? /

come inside / you must be cold / that's alright, thanks / your daughter will be out soon / i'm just waiting /

and waiting /

and waiting /

but you never arrive / and i think i knew that all along / because you have become an atlas / and i keep flipping through your coarse pages / again and again / hoping to find something new / something for me to hold onto so you don't slip through my fingers / like you always do / but all i find are the same old records /

please / just your face in the window / it's all i need / and the rain is so cold / breath puffing in front of my face / i can't tell whether it's rain or tears staining my cheeks / and there are people on the street, people trying to talk to me / and i don't like talking / only to you / only to you / only to you / but you're not here /

how long do i have to wait / back aching / rain dripping / heart breaking / before you join me out here? / i came to all this effort / and still i wait in the rain / drops slithering through my lashes like ice / umbrella clutched in knuckles turned white / staring up at your bedroom window / waiting for your face / because you'll be out in a moment, right? /

i) i never require company to take off their shoes. no surprise that i keep finding foot prints. no one ever wiped their feet.

a) open-door policies lead to unwanted guests, and i’ve had a hard time keeping track of who’s been renting and who is here for good.

b) open-book policies make it difficult to ascertain who read the facts and who just wrote in the margins.

1) some damage is evident. a coffee ring here, ripped edges there. i find more dog-eared pages these days than i’d like to, but i just keep unfolding corners. not that the wrinkles disappear. but they’re easier to look past.

ii) long-forgotten tenant leaves a microscope.

a) there are more fingerprints than i once realized.

1) i know who these fingerprints belong to.

2) i don’t know who all of these fingerprints belong to.

b) tear stains smudge ink.

1) salt crystals cluster.

c) tear stains are harder to look at than finger prints.

iii) it would have been smarter to use a time stamp. it would have been smarter to alphabetize. no. to place in chronological order. no. these pages are all tearing. these pages are all mixing. how many books do i have here?

iv) i hire a cleaning service.

a) the footprints have stuck in wet cement. i didn’t realize they were here when the foundation was poured.

1) i should have hired an exorcist.

2) i should have sold the property.

3) i should have burned this place down.

v) i should have burned this place down.

After what is the reason for your absence by Atifa Othman - @ao_poems