CrackleThere are needles pushed between my fingerswhich pulsate with my blood flowingto detergent-knuckles, raw and bleeding;and my nails appear to have been replacedwith broken glass or ripped paper, ragged.You take my hand, but you don't hear it crackleas the greaseproof skin breaks and crumblesand flakes of my bones drop to the groundlike dirty cigarette ash which you grindbeneath your feet as you pull me along.When I am alone I lick myself like a wounded cattrying desperately to replace dead skinwith tea-stained saliva and moisturiser.But still I crack and bleed, as those needlespush further between my fingers to rip me apart.
DistortedYou're like a young child laughingin a dirty bus stop, shatteringthe grimy plastic windows withsharp, high-pitched shards of sound.You pull strings of tendon from me sliver by sliver through my earsand smile, wrapping them aroundyour undersized, over-fed heart.If you should pull my nails one by one from my finger-tipsit would feel as delicious asice-cold water to my parched lips.My nerves dance like daisies in the breeze
Haiku IV"Play with us!" they saidgiggling, running around memy innocent words.
Haiku IIINut-brown, she stands tall,black hair shining in the sun.Strong, regal. Woman.
Haiku IIThat day, my lost voicereturned to me from nowhere.So I cried, and sang.
Haiku IThe cold sends the hairson my arms into frenziesof stiff watchfulness.