poetry was an escape for me but now i no longer feel like running

poetry was an escape for me but now I no longer feel like running

by candice

II

my necklace is pinned by a nail in the wall my head threads the needle

i’m still a down to earth girl, don’t worry

III

let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder IV let me dream

let me dream let me wonder

let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream let me wonder let me dream

V

like a crack in the wall a tear in the wallpaper there’s a tear in the film strip there is repetition on the carpet water never comes to a boil but warms the ceiling steams the windows then calms again no crescendo, maybe a bridge that only leads back into the water i must learn how to swim though my weight can be carried along with the tide along with the moon who saw me cry at night she fades like apathy in the sunlight

i want to float on my back VI

ribs in the ocean and fingers tangled in coral i now know how to breathe in the places i am not needed

VII

i’ve relegated my lips some thoughts remain behind the eyes

things perhaps you wish i could say to you but just like saying goodbye to a friend instead of making sure you will meet again (hope is the catalyst for happiness) “see you later!” not such a final feeling “i’ll see you soon!” is a lie wrapped in utter uncertainty (and false hope is the streetlamp lit road to disappointment and existentialism) instead i have said nothing and waited i still wait two seasons later as well as my lips i have relegated the amygdala to an undiscovered part of the brain

VIII

you're dead and gone why does this feeling sit with me

like an extra limb it's just numb i'm just sad every choice i make is laced with grief every outcome salted with affliction even my fingers are apathetic right now i'm just pulling suitcases of dead flowers because i wanted to seal the smell

IX

your music may come to an end, b

X

but it seems like this feeling never will

XI

my skin has become patchy and as well as forcing blood into my own heart i have to live with this rejection also

are death and resurrection of stem and leaf something we should soak our feet? i speak of the natural process of dying although it is afterward in which we seek

XII

contamination bleeds under the skin reflections never alter they’re stuck like a pin

hearts envelope a rhythm to start

violently shivering with apathy

i sit with a cats face blank expressionless in the waves of floods XIII

the sky and water are too difficult to separate

a blue sphere

yet looking up there is no dark spot the dark spot where your body should reflect sticking out no spot no ripples no recognition stillness

an urge to complete the sphere rushes over me XIV

the scented collection of petrichor is sitting on our kitchen table

i feel detached a duality appears when the petals shrivel up petals that were once so delicate, an atom of moisture could rip it from its stigma now hard, coarse, hidden away from the sunlight or sickened from lack thereof now they are tossed into the garbage fused with unwanted food bits stale forgotten tissues sealed in a container

XV

stale fruit behind the eyes dead fruit lies heath conscious trees only sway beneath the heat but twigs waltz on the ground in the light of she with

conditional love dead fruit beneath leaves morph into each other the scent rubs off on another their names become twisted strokes of a paint brush and in the spaces where the brush doesn't quite hold enough paint is where uncertainty hides in the plain sight

XVI

i’ve never liked the smell of flowers but i’ll let them dance along my sternum for may and for the rest of the calendar where the sun favours this side of the planet

i only want leaves doused in energy to stick to the bottom of my shoes chlorophyll remains, perhaps green could be my new favourite colour i don’t know how to pair colours but i know the brown in my skin longs for the brown of the earth again go outside capture movement, immortalise it

XVII

i cannot be jealous of the moon for i have never been as pretty as her

XVIII

tapping twigs on wet window panes, eyes heavy arms light of a duvet in warmer months, in months where fire and water politely collide, the rhythm of rain water lightly knocking the ground is sporadic and

soothing and soon the claps of thunder will be an echo in the subconscious, a sound wave in the muted cave where dreams sleep and wishes wait

XIX

back arched forward in an old wooden chair hand against your head wondering where it all went wrong

for the camera

resistance and your addiction to feign is sending you down a river into the sea i was dropped in by the sore hand of grief

your throat is gripped from the inside by fierce rushing pulses of water mixed with tears heart racing, eyes blurring these waters know no reason or sympathy you will drown with the rest of us

for no reason at all other than your urge to stand at the centre of the universe and scream “my heart is bigger than yours!” whilst other hearts aren’t beating at all

XX

some of our bodies are stiff but our heads are still above surface others have acquainted themselves with the sea bed and some of us are getting very sleepy

resistance and addiction are the key to disorder and there is no need to open that door so please digest the words of warning souls and stay away from waters that do not calm as best as you can

XXI

here it is a muted panic

a sense of falling without violent winds

running between the hairs o your cheeks

this is a new place of stunted anxiety

the middle

that I simultaneously knew was coming but

wasn’t coming

XXII

was it the night owl that dug its claws so deep in my shoulders

I’d walk with a constant curve or was I returning t a place underneath the smell of grief

when the night owl left and I felt a touch not war but molasses I knew euphoria could be natural too

XXIII

head resting on glass separating us from fabricated chemistry

XXIV

clouds dance above your / head like a halo, move my / heart (again) i like that

XXV

peripherals slings over my shoulders

you are my one dream painting

XXVI

wherever paths lead

arms will guide me

whether real flesh of yours

or moonlight

XXVII

XXVIII