waxcobwebmouth | a poem

childhood landscape mud on my knees

church bells, awaiting altar, expectant

in the wings, performance, step by step

choreography, before school, ageless

stripped of age, barefaced, spoonful of acidity


she calls me a liar

because she lied to herself

a long time ago


she wants nothing to do with the truth

she said her goodbyes

buried it, burned it, shunned it

into non-existence


and I look at her





flames in her head


and who breaks my bones?


I latch myself onto strong people

because I trusted you when you called me weak

and I realised

and realised

that the strong people that I sought out

were as weak as you were

and that I had been strong all along


if you managed to make me think

that I had no willpower, no strength,

you could do anything

to me

for me?


and I let you roam through my body

I have always lived in a fantasy world


and you entered it

placed yourself at the crime scene

without wiping the dirt off your feet


I stared at adults

and wondered what went on in their heads

everything they left unsaid

marked their faces

over time

and I love to read


what they think about the most

never makes it out of their mouths

“Jo, La Belle Irlandaise” by Gustave Courbet (1819-1877)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s