Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Used To Be Somebody

I used to be somebody,
roaming empty roads that even streetlights didn’t dare to enter,
playing hopscotch on the mouth of hell,
as you’d tell me that I would survive anything, anytime.

Who am I now?
What am I now?
Why have you asked me to think about this now?
Why can’t I be happy to lack, and just carry on, as if nothings wrong?
Why did you have to make it hurt now?

I lament that I’m lonely,
but I push away anyone that approaches my borders.
These are my boundaries, and if you don’t like them, I have others.
I am smothered by affection,
but none of it feels quite right,
because I was never quite present,
and I lament, lament and lament,
but it never changes,
and I never change.

I used to be somebody,
but now I’m a ghost that ghastly men send dick pics to,
and never think of as a wife, just a “when I’m in the mood” kind of girl.

The domestic goddess of a damned house,
I soak my dishes in soap,
draw the knife I’ve just washed, gently across my neck,
recalling how my throat was a fascination for a few of my lives,
punctured, pierced and played with.
The knife is still so clean and free of my blood,
my hands are still.
I am a coward,
never able to commit to leaving this life, but always complaining that I’m sick of it.

I used to be somebody,
with my halter neck dresses and glossy lips,
and now I’m dressed up, dried up,
with nobody to love,
an aching hole in my soul and an empty womb,
when promises were made and I made deals that could never be honoured.

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