She exists where the sun catches her

In the morning, when shadows stretch long

I sing to her, as the birds do, I sing to her

So the moon rises steel blue and gold and

She dances in the wake of celestial bodies

Her body, a shadow, a star, a smiling void

I am in love with a ghost, with a goddess

Sorry about the mess. Sorry about the shoes blocking the door. I’m not sure who they belong to; my footsteps don’t sound right in them.

Sorry about the bottles – I had this insane party. I’m sorry you weren’t invited; it was just for one. It’s okay, I'm not sure if I was even there myself.

Sorry about the piles of clothes on the floor. They don’t belong on my body any more than they do on the carpet.

Sorry about the holes punched in walls and the tears ripped in wallpaper and my paper skin.

Sorry about the stains. I could say that they’re from Mother Nature, paying her monthly visit. I could tell you they came paired with cramps and cravings, but the only thing I really felt was the sting of a metal edge. They’re the gift depression brings me every night, every day, every second. Swallowing the tears before I swallow the blades and instead pressing one to my skin, pools of crimson leaving stories on duvets, is better than forcing someone to rip up an entire carpet soaked in red.

Sorry. Sorry about the mess. Sorry for the rushed words staining stark white, blurred from raindrops and crumpled from regret. I never can place the letters in a way that makes the deed easier on ears and eyes.

Sorry about the piles of books with spines still intact. ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’. ‘Understanding the Borderline Personality’. ‘How to Turn It All Around in Thirty Days’. I’m waiting for the one titled ‘How to Fade Away Without Anyone Wanting to Follow’.

Sorry for destroying a room someone worked so hard on. Sorry for being that house at the end of the street that’s different from the others. The witch’s house. The one that the kids run past because they don’t want to get too close. Sorry for the boards on the windows. Sorry for the bolts on the doors. I still don’t know if they’re to keep others out or to keep me in, all I know is they’re working.

Yes, I am the witch’s house. Yes, I’m holes in walls and stains on sheets. All I can do is apologise for the mess and I can’t do a thing to clean it up, because these clothes will only ever be worn by the carpet.

Welcome to my humble abode. Sorry about the mess. Sorry about the bottles. Sorry about the blood. Sorry about the holes in the walls. Sorry about the one in my head. Sorry about the mess.

my hands are growing like weeds

great strips of flesh not my own

they click and crack like

camera shutters, deformed

and i am floating away upon

a breeze that does not strictly exist

while they hang stagnant and limp

waiting for some puppet master

to pick up my slack strings

i know this feeling in the same way

that i know the backs of my hands

and i do not recognize these hands

Silence is much too loud for me. My problems awaken when the noise leaves. I would rather hear the sound of the TV than the violent words that cut from within. So please, enchant me with a melody that is sweet. Play me a song to mute out the voices that yell at me in the silence.