Scars of separation

i wear the scars of separation on every surface of my skin, buried deep within my pores rests wells of devastation and pools of desperation. there are well worn tracks of worry, ridges of broken promises and shattered dreams so deep fear rests comfortably in the ruts of melancholy. there are mountains built upon my greatest torments that cast the shadows of doubts and discontent through the valleys of woe and floods of sorrow threaten to drown the anguish trapping trauma in the grotto of my soultreading along the trails of deprivation

seized by the throat and strangled by irritation, a body plagued with fury, trapped by the grinding stress and caught in the continuous loop of problems and punishment. vulnerability cowers in the corner burrowing into my heart, while negativity makes its home in the furrows of my impatience, all the while animosity builds and fills the caves with resentment, leading to cycles of self-loathing that have you choking on the venom of hatred and antipathy, leading to self-harm... and hatred manifests itself, overwhelming and overtaking sense. there are caverns haunted by my woes and rimples of vexation dripping into puddles composed of dread, and swathes of trepidation vacate against rims of painful agitation, overcome by the anticipation of danger. guilt hangs off my frame like a second skin, plastered by my shame. upon these wrinkling seams of terror sees thread through needle eye piercing skin, running train tracks sealing bloody woundsfor every scar there is a thin line of stitches where someone has fracked through my body’s armour to repair the irreparable woundwar wounds that only bleed to remind me of the pain of separation; the thieving of

scars of

46 separation

time that can never be returned. even at the day’s end where the earth in my bones returns to the ground, where my ashes turn to dust and my carbon meets compost and I know days no more, that long and lonely rest the only reprieve from sleepless nights and pacing anger, sweating stresses and itching worries, even then I will not be healed, even then I will not be whole, even then I will not be free, of the scars of separation.

one / two / three

i / despondency

bring me today in a brown paper bag. lean it up softly beside last night’s bottle; gently – carefully so you don’t wake me. come and watch the rain fall slowly with me while i think myself into oblivion; quietly – carefully so you don’t break me.

ii / vicissitudes

heaven exists in the afternoon. a cup of tea on the counter, the garden untouched. swans birthed from bills and crinkled back again on the rosewood table. television whispering softly enough, rain and soft moonlight creeping through, the windows ajar, clouds angelic, days slow and lazy. i’ve seen the resting sun, the future and all, we were youthful; vulnerable. i was alive, please take me there.

iii / ambiguity

nobody warned me these days were never ending; so dizzying, lovable nowhere but from a distance. nobody told me life is this fragile, fleeting, thing; head swimming, stomach sinking, this free-falling kind of feeling. this endless echo of ambiguity, because we’re all thinking, feeling, fragile beings.

Words Jordan White Artwork Oliver White