Untitled by Christy Czajkowski

I strapped an anchor to my ankles
blindly- eyes closed.
Lines get tangled,
tongue mangled.
Why can’t I handle these weights?
Makeup just bait for later debates.

Concentrate.

Smile, sign my name to these petty little games
pretending I’m more than this.
More than a kiss,
More than a flaker,
More than an ember.

I want to catch fire,
but there are other dire, higher signals of smoke.
So I choke, I cough, I break it off
and I slip back down
no sound as I drown
in my own pity,
in a little city of loneliness
of brokenness.
I just want a sense of closeness.

“There’s only up from here, my dear”,
is what hums through my ears.
So I pick up my pieces,
find releases and hope
not for an again
but for a new end.
None like this,
with empty men,
no button for send,
no hands to lend.

There’s only forward, no looking back
but yet I wait for its attack,
for this life to crash.
Just hand me my sash
for Misunderstood
for Misconstrued
for Misheard.
Because I can’t learn,
because hearts burn and yearn
but mine just hums- as it’s always done.

So I wait for its attack
for this life to crack.
It’s moonlight it needs,
and in it sweeps, cold winter breeze.

Breathe.

I recite. Breathe.
Ignite a light
this life is a fight
for a smile,
no crocodile tears here
only hidden fears
of this pain not so sharp
but dark and deep
like paint, it seeps-
dying my skin and eyes
vying for demise
blurring colors and confused mothers.

So I write to think,
create to speak.
Poetically and quietly,
but still just as violently.

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