Real Cult Burgundy

kicking stomach at learning i was soon to be born

so i made a needed affirmation with my in alteration fermenting form

took myself aside, purring behind my palm never once wide eyed

like “now that it’s just us…”

and there we swore

“if i am to become a sculptor, a decent parent or respected in portraiture

i hope to capture your likeness

we shall gutter grey painful experiences, for we see we are just…different

for we have spent amniotic from the inside perspective

knowing that they cannot ever possibly look in

so many will caress their weaponous fingers over you , complimenting an idea of you

a subtle flesh toned veil

before they are to know the truth

and a kiss is upon your cheek like powder greed matcha green

sweet wasabi

it will only come forth with a love or derision

and that you can take…

however, some are simply not acquired to the taste”

and there, with me

it was conceived

i sat up straight, or maybe a mime-like performance of it

i stuck my tongue out when focusing and spoke confidently when i read

so many mundane things i didn’t overthink when i did them

had a soul of graffiti dressed up neatly

i am told i had an undeniable brightness, it even shows in old photos

but then i slowly dimmed from colouring with rainbow into a hush secrecy instead

and how was i to understand what it all had meant?

all i knew was that i had felt unsafe in the company of other men

“screw being discreet” they had declared

applying pressure until my last rouge breath

i felt tacky

gaudy; all from the upper body

and the persecution complex trapped me within my own head

i remember when they had hit me in the back of the head

the exact delineating moments when i came to find

i was unlike them

i was only as young as five or six or seven then

and today…

how many seasons has it been ?

could i count the days, minutes, thunderstorms without breaking mood ?

i had been so busy hightailing an alternate verity that i forfeited a normal childhood

never up a tree, never rode a bicycle, a broken bone has never lived or healed within me

never even learnt to swim , so if you threw me to the deep end i’d sink to the sea bed

almost certainly

just like when Frances was on her death bed…

they say i get my painting from her, but i had denied the bequest

i wish my parents had forced me through it

a goodbye at least

but i couldn’t understand the scale of my mother losing her mother

i was so utterly wrapped up in myself

i have caused so much hurting because i was hurting

and for a time i thought sex was power

like exactly what else was i cut f*cking him for ?

i guess that’s why i’ve still never had it

(uneaten cherry)

and for a time i would aggress the daylights out of peripheral nearings

forgetting what me and myself had previously spit and shook for

running so fast for it to only loop back to into my own and finally accept it

and i accept it

told i and my dying self that there wasn’t enough room in this place for the two of us

and so he left it, and the past blurs into new

now there’s a stellar certified electric rampage soundtrack playing so auspicious

the town's biggest news

but still

i recall yellow is of happiness but also denial

i am unique because i am not because i am for i am not

and perhaps i live in a house made of rosy glass

but i can only be so sure of a growth when it becomes more tangible

not posy

what now is unknown

for i am no prophet of obsidian

i stir my coffee anticlockwise, an unnoticeable twitch to gain back some control

i am out by nine fifty five, turn myself clear water from a flask of mulled wine

(sludge)

i no longer talk for the sake of making noise

nor do i longer let strangers parlay on a potential creative crash dive of mine

the damage has already been done

kicking from learning the afterthoughts arising from being born

and if i knew then what i know now

i would take myself aside the bustling crowds and properly mourn

i would take my former blooming identity on a romantic getaway

with a heart shaped bed serenity

heart shaped tub obscenity, back within my own soft womb of privacy

then i’d close the curtains

light a few wax candles

pin prick and rub together my own fingertips

a life long bond made in real cult burgundy

(stained)

as if i’d been picking mulberries, neurotically tied back unto you for an eternity