I am distilled,

a distillation of nocturnal thoughts

thrown upon the scorn
of an unborn morning shore;

a veil of mourning sprays
of white foaming firmaments
foments in dissent,

fingers cling to algal rocks
smoothed too perfection,
a skin of salt assaults
the open wounds so clean
they scream for mercy,

drag a dreg of breath
from these strangled lungs,
where there’s only exhalations
left to say, I’m sorry;

I’m bartering the past
with a fray of scavengers
flaying at my skin
and siphoning the marrow
from my bones,
I’m drowning doubts
stilling silence;

did you know
stings burrow deeper
before the skin rejects them;

an icy blast
I’m branded left to die
turning inside
like a clock out of time,

write for me

an epitome of tragedy,

a future found on fairytale.

© Emma Calder


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