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[traumainwords]

i crave the violence

like my father’s fists

i romanticise pain

like my mother’s bruises

i drown in self-loathing

like my brother’s depreciation

i flounce about

a phantom of my flaws

seeping through the seconds

time aging my withered soul

i am made of patched bones

and loose, stalky muscles

i decompose and cry

for even the angels bleed sometimes

—iris

[traumainwords]

i exist in the crevices of these peeling walls

and breathe through the holes in the creaky floorboards

i fall through the fissures of my mother’s shattered heart

and bleed through the silent cries of my sister

i feel like a spectral entity

a shadow waltzing around this ghost house

filled with bodies, not souls

leaving trails of lovesick tears everywhere i go

for what am i, but a mere bone

in the past of your regretful skeletons

this place is nothing but

a graveyard of memories

—iris

[traumainwords]

a constant tempest surges beneath my fingertips

begging to be released into the void hollowing the rotting parts of my soul

yet the tattered threads of control seem to bind me down

forged from my father’s cruelty and mother’s caution

they remind me of my standing in these seven circles of hell

an abyss of pain that would be my destiny if i were to fly

and so, i hide and shrink

for that is all i have ever known

—iris

[traumainwords]

i find myself, aching and throbbing

the wounds of yesteryear still teeming with pain

never enough, the familiar lullaby crooned in my head

the creator of my being, taunting and raving

craving for praises that died on his hollow tongue

saline tracks slice across the skin of his daughter

as he revels in the wreckage of his making

and maybe then

does he finally approve of his own blood

—iris