poethive

[poethive]

Sleepy pt. 2

let me crawl down besides you, and breathe in the soft scent of your hair. arms, and hands, intertwined together, as i count every little freckle on your face and watch your chest move in and out. maybe i can finally rest easier.

[poethive]

Sleepy

tw: suicidal intention

shh, the stars will fade and the sun will hide away let me sleep tonight.

[poethive]

North Sea

tw: vaguely suicidal intention?

I know the ebb and flow of these tides too well.

A bitter cold comes with submerging,

that feeling all too quick of ecstasy, in numbness.

I have been thrashing too long in that black sea,

trying desperately to stay afloat.

Let it encapsulate each one of my limbs in its ice,

let that bitter cold seep into my bones.

Let it drag me down, beneath the thrash of the waves

down deep, where the light does not reach,

and silence is accompanied by only the dull thud of a heart.

That is a place of rest.

The night is so long, and I am so cold,

but as I float within this body of ice-hot fire,

and allow my limbs to stiffen and still,

I can see the stars again.

[poethive]

Feelings

and at the end of the day

when the sun slowly slips over the horizon

i try to tell myself,

you are only my coworker and my housemate

nothing less, nothing more.

[poethive]

Ruminations

tw: vague kink mentions, vague self harm esque vibes, vague sex reference, vibes innit

----‐--------

It's jury day.

I've known this for weeks, and days,

but maybe if I refuse to believe it,

then it will pass uneventfully.

It was your last accusation, I remember,

bitterly laughing as I scan the evidence.

Who would've thought you'd be so right?

Not me, that's for sure. My fingers linger

over the keypad, unsure of where my

heart goes. Why it still beats.

All you have caused me is pain. I know

that more than I ever can say. Pain that

you caused, pain that others caused.

Pain that you let fester and grow,

forming a wound that not even time

has fully managed to heal.

I wonder why, in nights when I find myself

unable to distract thoughts from steel

why was it this way? Why should I be on

your side in all of this, willing to fight like a

wounded animal, snarling teeth and claws?

They're right. I know they are. I know that

in not only my brain and heart, and you do too.

I just wish things could've, would've somehow

became different, but you refuse to learn.

You refuse to change, to grow, to understand,

to accept, to fix, to heal, to learn.

I hope one day that you learn.

I hope one day that you love.

I hope one day, when I lie awake at night, with a heavy heart and a ruminating brain and a sense of dread of the things that will come, that I will be able to sit and ask myself the age old question;

Why do I still love you?

Despite the pain you caused me, with words

actions, your lack of care, attention.

A heart that seemed so devoid of any love.

Cold, cruel, calculated, and somehow so

forgiven, so softly treated, so gently held.

What part of me ignores survival?

It's a question I answer, with shame in my head

and the knowledge that it renders me broken,

that I am complicit, that I should have learnt.

You leave me scared, hurting and bleeding out,

And goddamnit, I like it.

[poethive]

I tell myself my annoyance is irrational,

and yet, you took what was mine,

you drained it, and you expect me

to take the crumbs of your leftovers

as the reparations.

[poethive]

I once thought you to be a great writer.

I still do, even now. That refuses

to change, it is the thread that

spills over and over, that still

draws me in, entranced and subdued.

Still, sometimes I cannot help but notice,

in some small ways, that you use your words

like a burning weapon, reaching out and subtly,

causing hurt through passive words,

words that spill from you like ichor from wounded gods.

Even all this time later, my brain still begs the question, implores in later nights,

is a mask still a mask when everyone knows?

[poethive]

i hope that one day

you realise how I love you

and then, love me too.

it is a small wish

a wish that you never owe

or will ever owe, not to me.

but please, tell me that

you love me still, run flowers

through my hair, tangled in yours.

i love like the sun.

i burn and ravage, yet still,

tell me when you need the shade.

[poethive]

I feel no different than the french axeman.

He adorns himself in his robes of black,

and, stepping onto the stone steps,

must prepare himself to do his work.

You compare this to a trial, and so does he.

He, in sweet reminiscence of familiarity,

chooses to seek comfort in what he knows -

in what he loves. I can do no such thing.

You evoke the idea of a different type of trial,

a different game, and a different player.

Maybe it is just the long nights spent in the lounge.

Maybe it is the hours together on screens, sharing thrilling moments back in forth.

But in this one, I am no longer your Jury,

but find myself, unwillingly, as your executioner.

What happens when the axe will fall?

Will I fall with it, or will people just look upon me

with the same pity they grant the axeman,

for the crime of completing his work?