the hanged girl

You know,
I look beautiful in mirrors.
If you were here,
you could watch me in
freeze-frames,
turn lovely and ugly
in the turns of the light,
in the way I run my fingers through my hair,
or through yours.
Hourglasses in garden rows,
mock me from the hanging tree,
where I see them upside down,
so time just keeps waiting,
or moving backwards,
or flying up
between greening leaves.
Reveling in excesses
and indulgences,
is what I do best.
Which roles am I ignoring?
The ones that make me a woman?
The ones that take my breaths in
pungent wallops and scourging prongs?
My only roles are daydreams,
and drinking,
drawing pictures,
and dying.

 

16 Comments

  1. Drinking and dying – the dynamic duo of depression. You need new friends – happier and more therapeutic ones. You seem to have many here. But it’s impossible (I think) to slap a friend through the internet. It hurts to read your latest pieces.

  2. All of your work is seemingly revealing – you are able to touch on your spirit so well with your words. A couple of poems ago someone referenced Sylvia Plath. Her piece ‘Mirrors’ seems to speak in this writing. Well done.

      1. We all have solid mentors – direct or indirect. We choose bits and pieces of their lives to incorporate into our own. However, we certainly needn’t follow their every move as their choices often disappoint us in the final moments. Keep writing.

  3. Beauty — blah, blah, blah. Your poems have taken a decidedly suicidal turn. From tinges to preoccupation. WTF? Exit in another way. There are too many other ways. Seriously.

Love you, too

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s