in the works

I'm writing a series of poems. they're not near finished, but he's a step in the writing/editing process:

I.
butterflies gnawed my insides till
I was burnt empty and had no soul.
Or
I had too much soul that possessed me,
sculpting me into a puppet
that laugh-smiled as trained while
underneath realities of:
locked doors with no lights
too many thoughts to think and
too many feelings to feel consumed
my heartbeats.

II.
my heart beats
like you claim yours beats.
my heart beats:
a rhythm always producing
images of how to forget
What Is and
What May Be and
What Could Have Been—
pictures I try to disregard but
can not without help.
given the file I hand over,
doctors constantly conclude:
I am not broken enough
to need crutches stitches or cures.

III.
in their defense my Past sees no logic
in saying where it hurts,
what is wrong with me and
how it all happened—
following the correct choreography
my eyes open crinkle closed,
never crying in company
except in sudden outbursts of
self-inflicted manslaughter,
often forcing me to be tried by a jury of experts
who always find me not guilty without evidence,
then move on with their lives,
a charitable kindness.



IV.
I do not like it when a person pauses my pacing—
(the right attention scares me)
history always repeats itself if you do not learn from it.
nobody can learn from me,
I am too terrified to teach.
fear has imprisoned me in
a locked cage to which
I can’t find the key from the inside and
nobody outside will fight to save me.

V.
I am crushed.
c o c o o n e d :
wrapped shields
imprisoned armor
shining in the mirror but
they see flakes and
call it fake and
don’t see my undoing.

Their words lips hands
touch me beautiful,
but their eyes
scorn me un-pretty,
laugh at my imperfections,
attack me counterfeit,
refuse to see
l a y e r s :
an armor of laughter
over impenetrable chainmail
preventing the discovery of,
(no, protecting)
an infinite pit
(Oh yes, I am that deep)
filled to the brim with:
animated skeletons,
scars bleeding wounds,
unearthed burial grounds.

I wrap myself in bandages
of incessant laughing
instead of crying,
of noticing good
in everyone but myself
as if by being naive
I can forgive ignorance.

I know I am mocked,
dressed in my doll-shell of
blonde rambling giggles.
I know I am mocked and
it b u r n s me alive.

I know I am mocked
and it saves me from:
a body to hold me down,
a name to puppeteer my strings,
a tongue to throw (s)words
cutting me into
two or four or six or
n o t h i n g

I have been nothing.
I am unfolding nothingness.
I am tortured
t e r r i f i e d
crumbling into
oblivion.

I am an open wound,
but I smile
and so I blind
and so they believe.


VI.
Zero.
(the fool)
a fool-hearted love-fanatic
noticing the world’s ticks
and why they tock,
yet unable to help.
a fool for wishing to help.
a failure for failing to help.

in my mind’s eye hangs a blank ticking clock
foretelling when my shell will crack and
how nothing left will be salvageable.



VII.
fanatically, I pray for a Champion
who will fight to defend me
but I realize I am
not thin
not beautiful
not witty
not enough to warrant miracles.


VII.
my aortic valves pulse,
lust after:
a pair of safe arms
a perfect fit
a few poetic proclamations
but I have learned
crippled by too much passion,
true romantics always die alone.