MAUDLIN MAWS▪︎Poetry (3)

42. Holding the horses for a conjuring

I wanted someone to wrangle the slow pulse of my neck,
Break the hands that retained me
Claim me theirs without succumbing to my repulsive bipolarity;

I sedate in near trashing knuckles bandaged in tailored, chiffon tea-apparel
Composted grenadine glosses over my set sour-laughing brink of insolence
Trimming myself with the cutting edge of my steel finger-blades
So to please who's looking for a stitched cushion to adjourn his bodyaches in

Falling by forked bits
Yet never quiet seeming to check out for good
Burning out my limit lines to the vicinity of sabotaging my own mind
Brushing against the blasts of my survival instinct
Bracing peril without self-preservation alarms
Knowing I'd die a second time if I stop teasing myself with lethal harm
Hence not feeling a thing is what got me the first time

I admit my wants were never sound
From romanticised demise acts to justified detrimental relations
My concepts always suffered deformities
Only beside this wanted someone
All throb's lodes would be worth the wait and the chronic dally of strain

26/5/2023