Pedo mellon a minno /|\
Sparks and Snowflakes
Both land on my skin and
Sear this outer layer of mine.
The spark smoulders for a second and
I can smell my flesh burn
Before I feel the prick of pain.
Blood drowns the spark as
I carelessly wipe it away.
A snowflake settles on my skin
And the little bit of soot and blood smear
Across the soft hollow of my hand.
I watch the melted flake run black and red,
A tear dripping from the tiny wound.
Another snowflake, I watch it glitter,
Settled in stillness before it moves again
And gently turns, transforms to water,
A clear drop now, then another.
I’ll pick the scab off my hand, I know,
And have a little scar of pink and tender skin,
More fragile and exposed than the rest of me.
When my hot balm is pressed into the soft snow
It will cool it, strengthen it, and form another
Layer of protection, one grown from ice and fire.
©jsmorgane Nov 2017
Conversation on the 57
The uplifting prospect of easy bonding,
Food for my outgoing nature.
Just a bit of fun in the evening
I thought when I joined the group.
A bit of company away from the rest of it all.
The trepidations of a new beginning.
The chance for something new,
To be found and to find my set of people,
A preference of character and disposition
And the hint of ripples under the surface.
The human condition as a collective –
Fuel for our creative output.
It was alright at first.
It was fun, indulge my dramatic side,
And some time to myself on the bus home.
But then a couple of bad evenings
And it just got out of hand.
I thought I’d cope.
Then that nudge of responsibility,
A helping hand, an easy thing to do,
A gesture of good will,
Bad day today, I see.
Then an open word, an unguarded look,
And all caution thrown to the wind,
That sense of foreboding ignored
Just to get more of that naked soul I glimpsed.
My broad shoulders can carry it,
Never notice the added weight.
I don’t remember, probably never even noticed.
You were just present and I thought
I’d let you worship at my altar.
Mostly, I was looking inside, at myself –
This deep-set disappointment in myself,
The golden child that failed,
Failed to deliver the golden fruit.
The lack of outlet though I’m brimful of love,
So much to give, I thought, it starts eating away at you,
Until I am all hollowed out and
Only occasionally it oozes out as self-loathing,
The love for life turned sour with nowhere to direct
My force other than against myself.
That time I saw it clearly,
A self-destructive streak,
Not obvious at first.
That time I played along,
Kept it at bay, and
Please, I hope you see
I need to take control.
Already started shielding you.
I can contain excess,
I can hold it all in place for you,
I can stem the flow of outrageous,
Overblown beauty of fragile self-esteem.
I have no answers. There are no answers.
But somewhere down the line it must make sense.
The lucid moments when it will all work out –
Keep your goal clearly staked as claim.
Then off again into the shadowland,
Of keeping things muted,
Too tired to take it all on.
So get through the routine
And make it to the weekend,
The get-away, the one-way flight.
A half-life of demon-dodging.
Demons mostly in female shape –
I don’t do friendship.
Too close, too much,
I moved away to get away,
Got hurt too deep and can’t invest again.
I need you – well, I need some friends
But I don’t know, I’m too involved
With my own messed-up life
To reach out and hold on.
I saw your acts for what they were
And tried to answer all your needs.
I’m holding on for you,
A balancing act to keep from falling too.
The wet stains on my cheek are
Footprints of your soul.
That’s my stop now…
I wonder should I get off, too.
©jsmorgane (Sept 2017)