Razorblade rain

 

Close your eyes and take the beating.

A rain of schoolyard bruises, but you

know no other way, there is no use.

You accept the feeling, embrace it,

become one with the way blood tastes

on your lips. Abused, misused, confused,

and you lap it all up

- attention -

it is all better than oblivion,

right? Right?

A shout into the void at night.

 

And it cycles in seasons, an inch taller

and you fall harder. But still the kicks

are seasoning your skin, tenderising

your mind, to never lay a hand on another,

but poisoning your river so you struggle

to feel the flow of love, without the sickness

in the stomach grabbing hold. And you

look and see the smiles, the laughs...

Is this my place in life? Maybe this story

was always divined.

 

And whilst the kicks and punches hurt,

they only bruise the surface layers.

Underneath

a world starts to form defences,

a village coming together.

I hear songs of defiance,

laughter and cheers, as they

build fortresses of reformed

sticks and stones, towers of secrets

looking out at the heavens, awaiting

an onslaught to their homes. Fraught,

but unbowed

they pull all of your slumped emotions

into the core, protection zone.

And the pain is lessened,

as you close off and listen

to them sing you to sleep.

A lullaby of peace.

 

The words however,

they have no defences for. Their walls

can't hold them back, they attack from all sides.

Sharpened edges, razorblade rain,

cuts so much deeper into your writhing mass,

slivering pieces of your shivering meat-sack skin,

until you are a withering wreck

in a torn costume of pain.

 

But no one comes. No heroes.

You escape the rain in worlds

of fantasy, in worlds of games,

in the blurry sweeps of time,

in music, songs of pain,

that heal your own.

You escape in the drink, in

pushing yourself to the brink,

in sex, in feeling

something nice upon the skin,

but nothing takes the place.

Until a beat in your chest.

A tribal drumbeat of clicking fingers.

A song without music,

a lyric sheet of all the memories

that still linger somewhere

in the darkness, in the mental

wilderness.

 

And you forgive, never forget.

You let bygones fall into a layby,

and wither like a roadside shrine.

You open your eyes to beauty and

the sun that shines. The moonlight

that guides, the moments of divinity

in perfect harmony with infinity.

And you smile a real smile.

For nothing can ever bruise you again,

this skin suit is both armour and healing,

arms to hold and to be held within.

And the river flows clean, no poison remaining.