snakes, wood and quills

this shredded skin,

shed in the end

of me.

Am I reborn, am I a thorn

without its rose gold ladder?

am I a snake, am I a hen

lost in a funhouse with closed doors

pretending to be mirrors

that instead of breaking, bend?

Here I am, asking you,

Great ouroboros corridors

engulfing your own tails,

Each of my steps,

the gut pain of your endless halls,

the stirring of this snake-wood quicksand,

Eyes on your teeth,

where do I stand?

 

 

 

Hang them better

I wish I’d hang them better

in line,

My words…

I never knew

which one was true

at the time.

They always step on one another’s feet

pretending to be

what they’re not

and then

I always give them

the benefit of the doubt.

I chop them off

my mind

as fast as I can

so they don’t

run out of blood.

blind on lightbulbs

I saw the sun

in your lightbulb wires

and the absurdity of

kicking myself in the back

one step further on the way.

I lit a match on your coppered teeth

and you laughed

and agreed

and we played along

this ruleless game, make-believe song

and we laughed.

I slipped away

on your ice-cold shame

and let myself fold in what I thought

you saw

A smile,

seeping through the cracks

of what I could let you free.

I, by my own will, fell in this well

of cruel grief and misplaced sorrow.

I took so many steps away

this black hole sun I made of you,

my venom shame around your name,

a  wire of unsolicited,

bitter, hope.

I laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eyes wide cold

I woke up in a cold…

I woke up in a cold room,

fidgeted in a cold mind,

folded a cold soul in mine.

A little bit of clumsiness,

a sliver of humanity,

a little pinch of harshness-

there’s plenty of it.

Awaited by spiders, so lovely prepared

with too many joints

and too many limbs moving

backwards.

See, too many wires awaiting

to heal and encage

the poor, battered soldiers of The Middle Age.

to heal and encage

a freezing soul,

maddening face.

Feasting on shells

Each for her own…

watching in the seasalt mirror their

lack of survival skills.

Desperately trying to get it right

this time, go left

This time, proove you have the right

to be alive.

Genetically impaired is a bit harsh of a diagnosis.

Go left, it doesn’t matter, the matter

is a seashell,

and quite a strange one.

But what if, these shells, meant to be crushed in the waves…

they shouldn’t cry, whilst knowing

how to become the sand we’re all stumbling on.

Fidgety shells, they shouldn’t

scream, knowing what’s coming.

The sea tells them „go”, and they leave…

A future of not being

anything but what the seasalt mirror tells them to become:

blended,

foam and sand.

‘The crossroad’s ballad’ by Ines

I stood behind, unasked to

And I did these for everyone.

Unprovoked, but I got mad at you

And said goodbye to every single

train light.

 

Floating around, walls of self doubt,

Merciless, revengeful hound.

I stepped away in every way I

could have.

 

‘Cause you lose nothing

When nothing’s yours

When nothing’s, you

When no one’s waiting

There’s no one’s ending.

 

Today I’ll leave my nails

and hair

and teeth,

even my eyes

into the ground.

And then, someday,

there’ll be a heart-mind grave

to grieve at.

 

Old names, Thy armor’s no longer

to blame.

Footsteps whisper to me ‘brave’

and, willingly, I cut one hand, unsure

again.