I’ve recently become painfully aware of patterns I need to destroy. Upon this realisation, I am vulnerable. I hate that. Even as my muscles twist into firmer roots, I’m dwelling in absences between the letters. Sidestepping silences in the peace. I’ve lost my logical mind to other neglected pieces. I swapped suffocation for drowning. The dry field of broken branches and trampled flowers is filling up with rain. A swamp will be made of this ill witch of ill wishes. It’s soul-shattering to consider. The pieces I tried to squash down deep, bury, ignore, I was a party in their neglect; my neglect.
“Hurt me.” That’s what I told each of them with my eyes. “I exist for you to take and never give.” “Use me up.” “Suck me dry.” I meant to say, “protect me”, “hold me”, “let me go”, “love me”.
The bones are rising from beneath the dirt, the undergrowth is thinning. And I cannot pretend not to see them. The gouged-out skulls at the corner of my eye. Did that one furnish me with a wink? Don’t make eye-socket contact. I shiver, bat off the midgies catching in my hair. I shake it off and turn up the volume. It’s a trick. It did wink. And the record spins again—this is a trick.
I’m shrinking. I watch the horizon rise. The trees are getting taller. Paper-death limbs elongate with the shadows; books that I’ll never read. I sink. Mud envelopes my boots, the thick brown goop sticks to my skin, moulds itself around my calves and sucks me down. Geese honk overhead as the mud invades my nostrils.
Clan Witch & Word Refinery 