One more time
it won’t hurt
She lies.
On her back, the ceiling lost in the dark. The cold fingers of the breeze find their way through the slats in the blinds. Caress her. She cannot hold herself.
The bed warm beneath her.
One more time
it won’t hurt
It glints in the moontlight. The light of the streetlamp outside – a vague, sickly orange colour. One more time. One more bite of the thrill. It’s new. Her secret.
She touches her stomach, the words, there is no pain.
Not worthy of beauty.
A tear.
A tear from her eye. Why?
One more time…
The bed warm beneath her, sleep beckoning. A temptation to hard to resist. She is tired. So, so, very tired. Her eyes swallow the darkness in the room. No, no sleep, not yet.
Sitting up she holds herself; the warm night enfolding her cold skin. She can’t feel her ribs anymore. No. She can’t feel her hips against the bed, her spine scraping at her skin, her elbows sharp against her body, her stomach so inverse she can feel it touch her back… No. Not anymore. Even her skin has changed.
But she cannot control herself.
She cannot control me
A breath in. Sliding from her bed, she stands. She is stable now. Her skin stings. The room enfolding her in silence.
She is a secret.
She has her secrets.
Her shadow a faint reminder of who she is, stark black against the wall, against the orange night. Unsure. She picks them up.

Should i?

They control you.

She sets them down again; they twinkle, they jingle. So peaceful. So melodious. How she should be. But no, the edge is knife thin. She will come back soon.

The door opens, into a house of sleep. Such peaceful slumber.
It’s a blessing
She has ruined it.

Step by step, carpet to wood, wood to tile.
The haven.
The hellhole.
The kitchen.
What wonders will we find?

She is full of anticipation. Full of fear. Yet so empty… so frightened.
What wonders will we find?
What awaits her? She cannot bear…
She opens it. The light washes over her. A light she despises. The light her eyes cannot swallow.

but I need it

you don’t need it.

She survived.
The clock reads midnight.
The witching hour.
It’s like magic
it won’t hurt

But the voice in her head
The one she thought dead
Has come back again
To tell her she’s vain.
She’s insane.

Alone, she retreats – to herself. Recognition.
You are in control

Alone, it’s only a sensation. Back to the room. The safe room.
A breath out.
It glints in the moonlight.
It’s just like art.
One more time
won’t hurt



St. Albans, United Kingdom

  • Artist
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