Author: Porcupine

Publicly private poetry of an anxious girl.

stockholm syndrome

the cage was better in winter,

cold steel bars on cold skin,

freezing until i blended in,

steel skin,

the cage and i indistinguishable.

it’s summer now and the metal is expanding,

while i long to shrink,

the heat sinking into my flesh-

i shed every layer until there is nothing left;

a pile of shriveling bones,

rattling against these bars,

falling through the spaces between them.

Nobody is there to listen to the melody of me falling apart.

 

 

I used to think this cage was confinement,

restricting me from my surroundings –

but this cage is my safety,

protecting me from the nothingness that surrounds it.

harlot pt 1

she likes the taste of other lips on her own,

the way they swallow her breath,

her thoughts,

until only the rhythmic beating of his heart

consumes her.

she likes the feel of skin on her skin,

they mask her scars,

the shame is worth it

because those large hands

are just enough to keep her

from falling apart.

invisibility

I haven’t eaten in a week,

and I think it’s my body’s way of calling for help,

It speaks to me via pain echoing through a hollowness that is not hunger.

With every feint beat of my heart,

I can hear my bones rattling,

I think it’s my soul trying to escape.

I think it’s reached my throat,

Yearning to come out,

Piece by piece, it burns on exit,

Pushing out everything I try to swallow.

 
I’m slowly disappearing, and no one seems to notice.

rant: fuck short guys who drive bmws when they’re like 12 and have bad man buns (in hindsight, I was extremely angry when writing this, lol)

Fuck you.

I trusted you with your smooth words

and tales of damage,

“I have issues,’ you said.

I realise now that you were only damaged to relate to my weakness.

Perhaps it’s my fault,

I give away pieces of myself too easily,

to undeserving men who hand them right back to me with unwanted hands on my body.

you see, I give people all of me,

who I am is always unfiltered,

and maybe my own honesty is the reason I trust too much.

You made me feel as if I deserved to be treated like… nothing.

Not good enough for the “real you”, as you say,

pretending that the predator I see in your eyes is not who you really are,

as if the smirk on your face is not yours,

as if those colonising hands are not yours.

So, fuck you.

I am open and giving,  a piece of art

to be respected and appreciated,

never again will I allow myself to be treated

Like anything less than that.

intermission

Also, I’m taller than you.

And I do know who Nicola Tesla is, he’s my favourite fucking scientist.

No, I do not want to “give in” to you.

Please do not call me an “innocent little girl”, you have no idea who I am, and you sound like a pedo.

I am forged from thousands of years of female pain and anger, I am made of fucking steel and crystal, don’t ever talk to me as if I am replaceable glass, perhaps you don’t see the flames in my eyes through your hipster frames, but I will burn you to a fucking crisp and still be able smile through the smoke and ash.

And no amount of “product” is going to fix your hair. Soz.

So, fuck you.

sustainable farming method

and if i could:

i would use my words to plant seeds in the crevices of your chest,

whispers like water, watching them grow,

until flowers peeked out between the gaps in your ribs,

pastel petals against your pale skin,

so that your reflection was our secret garden –

if that’s what it takes to make you feel beautiful again.